Loose Ends
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Loose ends need to be tied off - or things can just unravel. My Sherlolly Saga continues, following 'The Other Woman'. Rated M. *SPOILER ALERT* This story contains spoilers for the other stories in my Saga and reviews contain spoilers for this story. I am now on Tumblr - as thedragonaunt. And I moderate a Twitter page for Mrs Hudson's Kitchen forum, @thedragonaunt. Do follow us!
1. Loose Ends Prologue

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Loose Ends**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

Sherlock stepped from the ice cold of the air-conditioned taxi into the humid heat of the tropical mid-afternoon and then, in a few strides, into the relative cool of the hotel lobby, not even waiting for the bell boy to retrieve his valise from the boot of the cab. He trusted it would be taken to his suite. Dressed in a cream linen suit, brown Oxford shoes and a Panama hat, and sporting mirrored wrap-around Ray-Bans, he was a picture of sartorial elegance, drawing from every eye an admiring look but he had no time for any of them.

He had been away from Rio for nearly a week, over in Sao Paulo, meeting with the lawyers that the Rocky Foundation had hired to represent the Indians in their struggle, against the power and mining companies and the impending change in the law, which would drastically reduce their already fragile rights to their own land. Sitting in meetings all day was really not his area – much more Mycroft's sort of thing – but a necessary evil, under the circumstances.

It had been a frustrating experience, which had tested his fragile patience to the limit, but he now felt assured that they were doing everything possible to help the indigenous people, whose legal rights in their own country were constantly being eroded and undermined. The team the Foundation had put together were, individually, the best in their field so, if anyone could make a difference, they could. And they were not alone. They were just one small part of a growing global movement to defend the rights of indigenous populations the world over. When he got home, he would speak to Mycroft about using his influence to apply some diplomatic pressure, with reference to the Proposed Constitutional Amendment 215. That was definitely his brother's area.

He strode straight across the lobby and out onto the terrace, at the rear of the hotel, through the shady, scented bower of passiflora and jasmine, to the outdoor pool area. Skirting around, between the pool edge and the row of sun loungers, his progress was marked by all the occupants of those loungers and the poolside bar, the women with interest and curiosity, the men with suspicion and a hint of rivalry.

William spotted him first, from where he wallowed and frolicked in the splash pool, under the watchful eye of the hotel life guard. Scrambling to the steps, he climbed from the water and scurried along the tiled edge, arms outstretched, shouting 'Daddy!' at the top of his voice. Sherlock's severe visage broke into a broad smile, as he spotted his son hurtling towards him. He stooped, grasping William around the barrel of his chest and hoisting him into the air, where he held the dripping child, at arms' length, whilst the boy flailed his limbs in sheer delight.

All the women in the pool area breathed a collective sigh of disappointment as they each placed a mental tick in the box next to 'Taken' but continued to follow the path of this vision of metrosexual manhood, just out of curiosity to learn what superwoman had ensnared him. The men just breathed a sigh of relief, relaxed their abdominals, and went back to their beers.

'William, hello!' he laughed, then pulled the child close enough to plant a firm kiss on his forehead before plonking him back on the tiled walk way.

'Where's Mummy?' he asked, though he had already spotted Molly, sitting on the edge of the paddling pool, while Freddie pottered around in the six inch depth of water that came almost to his dimpled knees. William grasped his father's hand and began to tug him along the side of the pool, in Molly's direction.

Molly stood up in the paddling pool, lifting Freddie onto her hip before stepping out of the water.

'Look, Freddie, Daddy's back,' she announced, pointing out the approaching figure.

Freddie let out a squeal of 'Dadada!' and kicked his legs to be put down. The moment Molly placed him on his feet, he was off, waddling on his sturdy little pins, fists clenched, arms bent and pumping in a determined fashion, covering the short intervening distance in no time at all, to be scooped up in two large hands and tipped over, sideways, as Sherlock blew a loud raspberry on the toddler's bare midriff.

'Hi, Freddie, my little chunkamunka!' he chuckled, licking the taste of sun protection and chlorinated water from his lips.

The watchers continued to look on as Mr Perfect settled one damp child in the crook of his arm, and knelt on the ground to allow the other soppy off-spring to climb onto his back, without a thought for the safety of his designer suit, then strode over to the woman in the plain red all-in-one bathing suit and grasped her in a one-armed hug, whilst pressing his lips, lovingly, to hers. She's pretty enough, they all thought, and has kept her figure but…well, no accounting for taste. They resumed their pouting, posturing and sun worshipping, curiosity sated.

Sherlock drew back from the kiss and smiled down at Molly.

'Hmmm, so good to be back. Everything alright?' he breathed.

She smiled up at him, slipping her arm around his waist.

'Good to have you back, and, yes, everything is fine. The boys really love it here. They are going to miss the pool.'

They had been in Rio for nearly two months but would be flying home in a two days' time.

'And what about you? Will you miss anything?'

'It's lovely here but I'm looking forward to getting home,' she replied, placing her free hand, reflexively, on her flat stomach.

A shadow of concern crossed his face.

'Everything's OK, isn't it?'

She smiled back, reassuringly.

'Everything is absolutely OK. Better than OK!'

'No sickness?' he asked, tilting his head and fixing her with an intense, searching look.

'Not so far, touch wood. I know it's early days but it feels _different_ this time.'

'Different how?' he enquired, wrinkling his brow.

'I can't explain, just _different_.'

ooOoo


	2. Loose Ends Chapter 1

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter One**

Travelling with children is never an easy option so, even with the comfort of First Class seats and the added advantage of the quasi-diplomatic status wangled for them by Mycroft, the twelve hour non-stop flight form Heathrow to Galeao International airport, Rio de Janeiro, was quite an ordeal for the Hooper-Holmes family. Anthea had booked the seats and, at Mycroft's insistence, booked a whole row of the wide-bodied jet, so they had seven seats from which to choose. This enabled both William and Freddie to lie down, across two seats each, and sleep for a good part of the journey. Molly had slept, too, lying across two seats in the middle section, with her head resting in Sherlock's lap, as he sat in the third seat.

Sherlock had spent most of the journey reliving, in his head, the experiences of his last visit. It was not without some trepidation that he had embarked on this trip. Since leaving Rio, nearly five years ago, he'd had no direct contact with any of the street children who had sheltered him and helped him to escape the wrath of Moriarty's man. When he and Mycroft had set up the Rocky Foundation, it had been on the understanding that they would remain as anonymous benefactors until such times as they chose to reveal their identities. For Sherlock, that time was about to arrive.

Only one member of the Foundation Board of Trustees – the chairperson – knew who was behind the establishment of this charitable trust. Mycroft had approached this person directly, at Sherlock's request, and asked her to assist them in their endeavour to establish a Day Centre and education programme for the Street Children of this particular part of Rio de Janeiro. The lady in question had been a personal friend of their mother – an old school friend, in fact – who had married a Brazilian man and lived most of her adult life in Rio.

With an encyclopaedic knowledge and abundant experience in the area of organising charitable projects, coupled with an awareness of the importance of shielding the identity of high-profile benefactors, she was the perfect choice for the job. Her loyalty to their mother's memory and affection for the two Holmes men, qualified her still further. It was she who had managed the project, on an executive level – selecting the trustees, vetting staff and organising fund raising events. She had done an excellent job.

The Foundation had been bank-rolled, initially, by a large donation from Sherlock's Trust Fund – from that portion left to him by his mother – but that initial injection of cash had been increased, exponentially, through the efforts of the Board of Trustees, led by the Honourable Caroline Bowes-Lyons. Since marrying Henriques Maria Chagas de Sousa, she had become Carolina Lyons de Sousa but, to her friends she had always been and would ever be Caro.

Caro had been Sherlock's 'woman on the ground' and had helped to organise this trip, finding and booking the most appropriate hotel, setting up meetings, organising visits, working out a viable schedule which would allow her dear friend's youngest son to spend time with his own family and enjoy the delights of the city, as well as fulfilling his agenda, with regard to the business in hand.

Sherlock was looking forward to meeting her. He had no memory of ever meeting her before, though apparently he had, when he was a small child. Mycroft, on the other hand had met up with her several times, over the years, in his capacity as a government envoy. He spoke highly of her. For that reason, if for no other, Sherlock was a little nervous at the prospect. She must be a formidable lady, in deed, to earn such high praise from his brother.

But the people he was most anxious about meeting were Ru'e and Maria. Through the recovered memories of his time in the favela, he knew that the group of children he had stayed with were a tight-knit group but Ru'e and Maria held special places in Rocky's heart and he in theirs. They were the equivalent of John and Molly to him. He also knew that Ru'e had exacted revenge, on Moriarty's man, for the death of their friend and leader. But could that really mean they had forgiven Sherlock for actually killing their loved one?

He wondered how Molly and John would react to a third party, if the situation had been reversed. Molly would probably have forgiven them. She had a very forgiving nature. She must have, to tolerate his idiosyncrasies in the way that she did. What about John? He wasn't sure. His best friend would probably find meeting with that person very difficult. This made Sherlock wonder whether he was being fair to both Ru'e and Maria, in expecting them to see him, to give him the opportunity to apologise, face to face, for the terrible thing that he had done to Rocky.

He had to stop thinking about it. It was too painful and it was sapping his resolve. He had made his decision and asked Caro to facilitate a private meeting between himself and the two street kids – who would not be kids any more. He had never been quite sure how old any of the children were. At first meeting, he had taken Rocky for a twelve year old but once he got to know the boy, he readjusted that to fourteen or fifteen. However, for all he knew, he could have been in his late teens or even early twenties. None of the children had seemed to know what year they were born or even what day. This had been one of the objectives that Sherlock had wanted the Foundation to undertake – to try to trace the children's origins, to give them family names, roots and legal identities.

Sherlock had never really thought about the importance of knowing who you were and where you came from. At times, he would have preferred to disassociate himself completely from his own origins. Having his own children had changed that attitude completely. He needed them to know where they belonged. Suddenly, it really mattered.

The flight attendant was approaching, along the aisle, opening the window blinds on the left hand side of the plane as she went, in order to begin the process of waking those passengers who were sleeping. Sherlock looked at his watch. They would be landing in about half an hour. He looked down at Molly's sleeping head, laid in his lap, her hair tousled from the long journey, her nose shiny from sleep. She would want to tidy herself up before they disembarked so probably best to do that now, before the boys woke up and needed both their attentions.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave it a small, almost imperceptible shake but, ever a light sleeper, she responded immediately by flickering her eyelids and turning her head towards his hand. She opened her eyes and met his gaze, then gave a small smile.

'Are we nearly there, yet?' she croaked, in her morning voice.

'Nearly. Thought you might want first shout at the bathroom,' he replied, brushing a stray tendril of hair from her forehead.

She nodded and pushed herself up to sitting, in the seat next to him.

'Boys still asleep?' she asked.

'Yes. I'll wake them up, whilst you're sorting yourself out.'

He reached down to the bag between his feet, which contained bottles of water. He and Molly had encouraged the boys to drink, during take-off, so that the action of swallowing would equalise the air pressure in their ears. They would need to repeat the process, during landing, so he was just checking that they had enough supplies to cover that process.

Molly reached under her seat and found her travel bag, which contained her toiletries and make up. Taking the bag with her, she tottered off to the toilet cubicle, not yet fully awake. Sherlock got up from his seat and crossed the aisle to William. He would wake him first and take him to the bathroom, then the older boy could take care of himself whilst Daddy woke Freddie and repeated the process with the younger child. Ever methodical, ever logical, even in his parenting style, it just came naturally to Sherlock, in everything he did.

ooOoo

Having disembarked from the plane and passed through passport control and baggage claim, the family made their way through the 'Nothing to Declare' customs option without a hitch. Once out in the Arrivals lounge, Sherlock spotted a uniformed driver holding a card which read 'Sigerson'. This was an alias he had used during his three years in deep cover, hunting down and destroying the constituent parts of Moriarty's international organised crime network. It still had its uses. He steered the luggage trolley toward the man, as Molly followed, pushing Freddie in his buggy, with William holding tightly to the handle, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his father's back, for fear of losing sight of him. On reaching the driver, Sherlock introduced himself.

'I am Mr Sigerson.'

The man immediately took charge of the trolley and, requesting that the family follow him, led the way through the busy terminal, out into the tropical heat and humidity of Galeao International Airport. The contrast with the cool air-conditioned environment of the plane and the terminal was so marked that both Molly and Freddie uttered small cries of surprise. William simply pursed his lips and kept a light hold on the hand that Sherlock had given him, once relieved of the trolley. The family was led a short distance to a people carrier and, as the driver transferred the luggage into the rear compartment, Molly and Sherlock strapped the children and themselves into the comfortable seats, in readiness for the journey to their hotel.

As the car transported them from the airport to the city, Molly and the boys gazed in amazement at the sights that greeted them, commenting on what they saw.

Freddie was the most verbose, deploying his evolved phrase,

'What dat, mumum?' and a more recent acquisition,

'Look! Look a' dat!' which he accompanied with enthusiastic pointing, until he thought he had everyone's attention, before enlightening his audience with an explanation, as in,

'Car,' delivered with all the sagacity of a college professor, enlightening his eager students.

Molly mostly observed but uttered the occasional 'Oh, my goodness,' as she spotted some exotic plant, unusual building or breath-taking vista. William just looked around, absorbing the many features of this new environment, which he would sort and catalogue later. Sherlock simply looked at the road ahead and tried not to think too much about the last time he had made this journey.

If the route from the airport was full of surprise and intrigue, the hotel was a sight to behold. The Palace Hotel, on the Avenue Atlantica, built in the 1920's, exuded opulence and excess, redolent of the Jazz age and the Great Gatsby. The huge stone edifice, six stories high and sitting squarely on some of the most expensive real estate in the world, was an imposing sight. Molly had never seen anything like it.

'Sherlock, are we staying here?' she asked, with a mixture of alarm and astonishment.

'Looks like it,' he replied, as the passenger door was opened by a doorman in an elaborate and colourful uniform, who extended a white gloved hand to assist Molly from the car. She took it, more from politeness than necessity, and stepped out into the heat and humidity once more. Whilst she and Sherlock gathered up the boys, a bell boy with a fancy cage on wheels unloaded their luggage from the rear section of the car, and as they entered the elegant marble foyer, they were greeted by the concierge, who guided them to the check in desk.

The receptionist, in her smart business suit, acknowledged them in impeccable English and Sherlock gave the correct name – Mr Holmes. With smooth efficiency, they were checked in and then an immaculately dressed young man led them to the lift, which took them to the sixth floor and their penthouse suite.

Molly marvelled at how easily Sherlock dealt with all this. There was still so much she had yet to learn about him but she had to wonder how he could be so content to live in their comfortable but rather cramped little flat in Smithfield, when he was clearly accustomed to far better. But that was one of the things she loved about him. All this sort of thing was not important to him. He would have instructed his mother's friend to arrange all this for the benefit of her and the boys. He would have been content to stay in far less luxurious surroundings.

When the lift doors opened, the family were led along a deep carpeted corridor, which recalled the bygone age when the likes of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers stayed here. Their escort used a master key to open a door and they were led through to a huge, elegantly appointed sitting room, with a polished wooden floor and enormous full length windows, opening onto a private balcony which, in turn, overlooked the hotel pool and the Atlantic Ocean.

As Molly stood in the middle of the cream carpet and looked around in awe and wonder, she saw that the luggage had already been delivered to their suite. The hotel representative was explaining the facilities to Sherlock and herself but she was finding it difficult to attend to his words. After their long journey and in the face of all this opulence, she was quite overwhelmed. Sherlock thanked the man for his assistance and the family were left alone. Standing in the middle of the comfortable room, Sherlock turned to Molly and said,

'You are OK with this, aren't you? If not, we can go somewhere else.' He was a little perturbed by her stunned expression.

'No, no, it's fine,' she assured him. 'I just need to keep reminding myself that I'm not dreaming. That shouldn't be hard. This is beyond even my wildest dreams!'

ooOoo

**I have never been to the Palace Hotel, to Rio de Janeiro or even to Brazil! The Palace Hotel's web site has been immeasurably useful, as a valuable source of information for the history, appearance and facilities of this iconic establishment. I wish I could go there and sample it's delights but – like Molly – such an experience is beyond my wildest dreams!**


	3. Loose Ends Chapter 2

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Two**

'Why don't you take the boys down to the pool, while I get us unpacked and moved in,' Molly suggested. 'You could get them some lunch from somewhere, too.'

Sherlock shrugged and turned to William, who was sitting on one of the easy chairs, looking round at his new temporary home with a subtle blend of curiosity and suspicion.

'Would you like to go for a swim, Will?' he asked.

'Where?' was the little boy's cautious response.

'Here, I'll show you.' He scooped Freddie up off the floor, where Molly had placed him, having carried him up from the taxi, and, opening one of the huge windows, led the way out onto the balcony and across to the balustrade. William could see, through the plain wrought iron painted bars set along the top of the stone barrier, an enormous stretch of beach and an even more enormous stretch of Atlantic Ocean, and, to the left, a row of cone-shaped rocky outcrops, which rose from the water, like giant molehills. Peering through the barrier to look down where his father was pointing, he had a bird's eye view of the luxurious pool area.

'Down there, look, in the pool,' Sherlock explained. William looked up and smiled, nodding enthusiastically. Sherlock grinned back. Freddie just pointed and said,

'Wha'dat, Da-Da?'

'It's the ocean, Freddie, the Atlantic Ocean. We flew across it, in the aeroplane, to get here,' 'Da-Da' replied. 'OK, let's get changed!' he added and whisked the boys back into the sitting room. Once inside the door, he turned to William and knelt down on the floor, to speak to him on eye level.

'Now, William, you must not go out onto the balcony if Mummy or I are not with you, alright? And, if you see Freddie going out there, you need to tell me or Mummy, straight away,' he insisted. William nodded, earnestly. The risk was minimal, since the barrier was very secure and far too high for Freddie to scale, but one could never be too careful where children's curiosity was concerned. Boundaries explained, Sherlock grinned again, rose and took the boys off into the adjoining room, which was to be the brothers' bedroom for the duration of their stay.

Molly had already wheeled the boys' suitcase into that room and had it open on the luggage stand. She was removing their clothes and placing them into the drawers provided. She had put, on one of the twin beds, the boys' swimming shorts, two t-shirts, two pairs of crocs, two sun hats and a pair of inflatable arm bands for Freddie. William had taken swimming lessons at school and was past the arm bands stage. Molly had already taken a plastic bottle of Factor 50 sun protection from the toiletries bag.

'You go and get changed,' she advised Sherlock. 'I'll get the boys ready. Your stuff is in your valise,' she added, as he disappeared back into the sitting room. Molly had taken charge of the packing, in order to assure herself that nothing was inadvertently left behind at home, so she had a mental catalogue of what was in which bag. For perhaps the first time in her life, she had recognised her mother's influence in her own behaviour. It was not a comfortable feeling but it proved that the practical streak came from the distaff side of her pedigree.

When Sherlock reappeared in the doorway of the boys' room, he was dressed in knee-length swim shorts, a t-shirt and crocs, just like his two sons. They looked rather like a matching set – small, medium and large, except for the sunglasses on top of his head, where the boys wore their peaked hats with neck protection flaps at the back. Molly was just finishing applying a lavish amount of sun screen to both children. She turned to look at 'Large' and smiled.

'Well, you certainly look the part,' she exclaimed, with a giggle. Sherlock looked at her with mock disdain and replied,

'Remind me never to let you shop for me again.'

Molly crossed the room and gave him an affectionate hug.

'You look fine,' she assured him. 'I've just never seen you in holiday mode before. It takes a bit of getting used to. I hope you've applied some sun cream. With your skin tone, you will definitely need it.'

He nodded and squeezed her in return, pulling her close so that she could smell the sun cream on his skin, then he gathered up the youngsters, to depart for the pool.

'Don't forget your key card,' she reminded him and he took it from his shorts pocket and waved it in the air, without looking back.

'I'll come and join you when I'm done here,' she added and he nodded, as he steered William through the door to the corridor, with Freddie sitting in the crook of his arm, and they all disappeared from sight.

Molly looked around, once more, at the palatial suite they occupied. With their belongings beginning to take over, it didn't seem quite so daunting. It was really just like Butlin's, she reminded herself – only a whole lot more posh.

ooOoo

The family spent most of their first afternoon by the pool, being waited on solicitously by the hotel staff, with whom the Hooper-Holmes boys were an instant hit. Freddie, in particular, they found extremely engaging, with his open friendly smile and eagerness to interact with anyone who would give him the time of day. William was far more reserved, though polite; he would answer any questions directed at him and always said 'please' and 'thank you' but had no desire to enter into a full blown conversation with these new people who spoke English with a strange accent.

William was fascinated by the fact that Daddy spoke to the hotel staff in a different language and they replied to him in that same tongue. He hadn't really been aware that not everyone in the world spoke English but now he found himself trying to equate the words of this strange language with their English equivalent. Having decided what they would like to eat, Daddy was ordering food from the menu card that a waiter had brought. At first, the words all seemed to blend into one long sound but, gradually, William found he could separate out individual words and begin to deduce their meanings. After the waiter left, Sherlock explained to William that, in Brazil, they spoke Portuguese.

'When did you learn to speak Portuguese?' William asked and Daddy explained that he had spent some time in Brazil, while he was away, before he knew that William even existed. The little boy began to watch the staff moving round the pool area, bringing food and towels, drinks and other items to the guests, and he listened to their interactions with one another and began to work out what they were saying, from the words he heard and the context in which he heard them.

When Molly came to join them, about an hour later, she found her family engaged in some boisterous play in the splash pool area. She took the opportunity to enjoy a couple of slow, languorous lengths of the main pool then took over care of the little ones so that Sherlock could have a proper swim. After that, they shared their time between the sun loungers, the splash pool and the paddling pool – which Freddie found particularly interesting and a safe place to practice walking independently, since the water, which came up to his knees, made falling over a great deal more fun than on dry land.

His walking gait was still quite broad-based, with feet wide apart, and he tended to take uneven steps, with his arms held out at shoulder height for balance. Stopping was a much bigger problem than starting, so he made excellent use of furniture and other sturdy objects to halt his progress, bumping into them quite deliberately. Occasionally, this resulted in a scrape or the odd bruise but this did not seem to deter him. It did, however, earn him the soubriquet 'Mr Bump', which also happened to be his favourite story of the moment, so it was all good.

By late afternoon, the family were ready to return to their room. It was decided that they would order supper in their suite and then the boys would have an early night, since it had been more than twenty-four hours since they were last in a proper bed. The long journey and the afternoon in the pool had taken its toll and both the children were more than ready to sleep when they were placed in their individual single beds. Sharing a room was not an entirely new experience, since they did this at Uncle Mycroft's house, so it would not take them long to drift off to sleep, leaving Sherlock and Molly to enjoy their first night in Rio together, alone.

ooOoo

The suite phone had rung whilst Sherlock was reading a bedtime story to William and Freddie. Molly picked it up and said a tentative,

'Hello?'

'You must be Molly,' declared a pleasant female voice. 'I'm Caro. How lovely to speak to you, at last. I've heard so much about you!'

Molly was a little taken aback, at first, so there was a slight pause before she replied.

'Oh, Mrs de Sousa, hello, yes, this is Molly. It's lovely to speak to you, too.'

'Please, Molly, you must call me Caro. Mrs de Sousa is my mother-in-law!' Caro laughed so infectiously that Molly could not help but join in.

'I'm so sorry, Caro, I will remember not to confuse you with your husband's mother,' she replied.

'I hope you had a pleasant journey – bearable, at least – and the children coped with all the kerfuffle?'

'Oh, the journey was long but the children slept through most of it and they've spent the afternoon in the pool, here at this lovely hotel. Thank you so much for organising all this for us. We are truly grateful.'

'Ah, think nothing of it, Molly, dear, it was a great pleasure.'

'Sherlock is putting the boys to bed, actually. I'll go and tell him you're on the phone….'

'Oh, no, please don't interrupt him. I just wanted to make sure you had arrived safely and everything was satisfactory. Please, just tell him I will come to your hotel at ten thirty tomorrow morning, to take him to his first meeting.'

Molly knew what that first meeting would entail. Sherlock had insisted it should take place at the earliest opportunity and be given top priority.

'Yes, I will tell him,' she assured the other lady. They chatted generally for a further minute or two and then Caro said goodbye and rang off.

Molly walked out onto the balcony and stood with her hands on the rail of the balustrade, looking out at the incredible view. It was dark now but the lights of the hotel illuminated the immediate surrounding area, fading into twilight and then darkness. The smell of the ocean was sharp with the tang of salt and ozone but the sound of the waves breaking onto the beach and swishing back again was soothing, in stark contrast to the low rumble of the traffic on the Avenida Atlantica, which ran past the front of the building, muted by the mass of the building itself. The sky was clear of cloud but the moon had not yet risen so Molly could see countless stars, arranged in the unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere. This was a magical place.

She both heard and felt Sherlock step out onto the balcony and stand behind her, placing his hands on the rail, either side of hers and resting his jaw on her shoulder.

'Isn't it beautiful?' Molly breathed. 'Thank you so much for bringing me here.'

He kissed her cheek, taking one hand off the rail to slide his arm around her waist and draw her in to him.

'I couldn't have come here without you. You know that, don't you?' he murmured and she felt the deep baritone of his voice rumble in his chest and vibrate against her back. She rested against him, breathing in his scent to mix with that of the ocean in front and the city behind. She didn't really want to spoil this moment but she knew she must.

'Caro called, while you were reading to the boys.'

She felt his body stiffen, as he was reminded of the ordeal ahead of him, tomorrow. Molly twisted in his embrace, turning to face him and wrap her arms around his body.

'She will be here at ten thirty, in the morning, to take you to meet them.'

He placed his other hand on the back of her head, as she tilted her face up to meet his gaze.

'Whatever happens, you will know you did what you felt was right,' she intoned, 'and they will know you acted honourably.'

Looking down into her liquid brown eyes, he was suddenly reminded of another balcony in another exotic location – and another woman. His heart lurched inside his rib cage and she felt its rhythm falter then suddenly increase, as his facial expression changed from apprehension to repulsion.

'Sherlock, what's the matter?'

'Nothing… nothing important, at least. I just need to get off this balcony.'

He slipped out of her embrace and turned to go through the window, into the sitting room, leaving Molly confused and concerned, but then he paused and turned back, taking her hands in his.

'It's nothing, really. I just remembered something – something I'd rather forget – but it's all good. I'm fine, honestly. Let's go inside.'

He led her by the hand, into the elegant interior of the suite, and closed the window, to shut out the sounds, smells, sights and associations of the night.

ooOoo


	4. Loose Ends Chapter 3

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Three**

Sleep was proving elusive. Having not slept at all on the plane – apart from a couple of micro-sleeps, just to tide him over – he really could do to sleep tonight. He needed all his faculties to be sharp, tomorrow. He was anxious, going over in his head, again and again, what he would say to Ru'e and Maria. But it never sounded right. This sort of thing did not come easily to him, despite all the years of Molly's influence. Feelings were so tricky – tricky to have, tricky to describe, tricky to deal with. Sometimes he wished he could go back to not having them at all but even he knew that wasn't likely to happen – largely because it never had been the case. Pretending not to have feelings or ignoring one's feelings is not the same as not having them at all.

He slipped out of bed and padded quietly into the sitting room, liberating his dressing gown from the back of the door as he went. Negotiating the darkened room, he opened the window onto the balcony and crossed to the balustrade. He was annoyed with himself. Why had he done that, earlier? Here he was, in Rio de Janeiro, in the most romantic of locations, on a balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with the woman he utterly adored – and he had let that other woman intrude. Why? He could not allow her to define him. More to the point, he could not allow her to define his relationship with Molly.

Molly was his soul mate and his saviour, the bedrock of his very existence, the mother of his children, who gave purpose and meaning to his life, and she deserved so much better from him. And he really had been dealing with this issue, rationalising the woman's influence out of his head. All those hours spent talking to Arthur had helped so much.

Arthur was a surprisingly easy person to talk to, which was fortunate, as Sherlock was exceedingly reticent to talk, but during the long process of his recovery, the young army nurse had managed to gain his confidence so completely. The man had a way of asking questions that did not sound intrusive, almost as though he knew the answer already and was simply asking for confirmation. Sherlock found himself discussing matters which he would never have broached with anyone – not even John - the most delicate of these being the loss of his libido.

'It's a natural response to an unnatural situation,' Arthur had stated, as though it was the most common of everyday topics of conversation. 'Physical intimacy has become associated in your mind with humiliation and loss of control. Who in their right mind would want to put themselves through that again?'

'But it was never like that with Molly. There was no dominance or subservience. It was all give and take, on both sides,' Sherlock confided. 'And before Molly, it was just sex – plain and simple – mutual self-gratification, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.'

'And that's what you need to focus on, Sherlock. This incident with The Woman, it was just that – an incident. It happened, you survived, it's over. Put it behind you and move on. We can't change the past but the future is a blank slate, isn't it? Don't let this one incident dictate your life. It's a trite phrase, but she really is not worth it. She's just a criminal – you read her rap sheet. She may have taken on airs and graces but, underneath all that gloss, glamour and designer clothing, she's just a girl from Essex who takes her clothes off to impress people – you said so yourself.' Arthur talked a lot of sense.

He had advised his patient to be patient, not to expect too much too soon. The more anxious he became about the issue, the worse it would become. But patience was not Sherlock's strong suit. He was his own worst enemy, in that respect. Molly had been patience personified. She made no demands on him whatsoever, just waited for him to work though the obstacles in his own head. But, in some ways, that made it worse. He knew that Molly loved him unconditionally and would accept a celibate relationship, indefinitely, if necessary. He had been celibate for years, prior to his assignation with The Woman, and again both before and after his first encounter with Molly. But that was him and that was then and then it was from choice. He hated himself for inflicting this abstinent existence on her. And he had secretly hoped that a change of environment would be the key to breaking down this barrier between himself and his sex drive.

Sherlock knew he had over-reacted earlier because he was nervous about his meeting with Rocky's friends, feeling vulnerable and exposed. He just needed to rationalise this situation. Apply logic. That _was_ his area, wasn't it? He was here in Brazil, The Woman was in prison in the UK, awaiting sentence for a crime which carried a very long custodial sentence. Who was the winner and who the loser? Standing in the moonlight, listening to the sounds of the night, feeling the breeze against his skin and smelling the ocean, he knew the answer to that question.

He turned and walked back through the tall window, closing and locking it behind him, and returned to the bedroom. He removed his dressing gown and slipped quietly into bed, moulding his body to match the contours of Molly's sleeping form, sliding one arm around her waist and resting his cheek against her head, breathing in her scent and feeling the texture of her skin against his. Even in sleep, she moved a hand to place it on his thigh, nestled against him and sighed. Physical closeness had sustained them over the long months but he sincerely hoped that it would progress, soon, to something more.

ooOoo

Next morning, Sherlock was in the en suite bathroom, shaving, when William wandered in, in his pyjamas, to use the toilet then sat on the toilet lid, watching his father intently. Sherlock caught his eye in the bathroom mirror.

'Question?' he asked.

'Why are you doing that?' William enquired.

It struck Sherlock that William had rarely, if ever, seen him shaving. He tended to take William to school first and then shower and shave afterwards and, since they only ever shared a bathroom when they were away from home, there had not been many opportunities for this daily ritual of the father's to be observed by the son.

He paused in his activity and wiped the shaving foam off his jaw then knelt in front of his child and took the boy's hand, placing it on his chin.

'Can you feel that?' he asked.

William wrinkled his brow and nodded slowly.

'Those are whiskers – little, wiry hairs – called stubble. They grow all the time. If I don't want to have a hairy face, I have to shave them off every day. When you get older – quite a lot older – you will start to grow whiskers on your face, too. If you choose to, you could grow a beard. I grow a beard sometimes but usually when I'm not well, when I don't feel like shaving every day, for whatever reason.'

At this point, William's mouth formed into an 'o' and his eyes lit up with the visible evidence of a 'eureka' moment.

'So, when you're poorly and your face goes furry, that's because you haven't been shaving every day?' he asked and Sherlock nodded.

'But, usually, I prefer to be clean shaven – which means not having a beard.…or a moustache, for that matter, so I shave every day. I'll teach you to shave, when you're older but you can watch me do it now, if you like.'

William smiled broadly and nodded with enthusiasm. Sherlock returned his smile and reached for his aerosol can of shaving cream. Pressing the button, he squirted a large ball of foam into his palm and, putting down the can, began to spread the foam over his jaw, chin, top lip and neck, with William watching intently.

'I have to look in the mirror now, to do the next bit, so you come and stand on the side of the bath, so you can see better.'

William did as he was bid and balanced easily, with one hand on the wall to steady himself, then looked with great fascination as Sherlock showed him the twin blades in his safety razor then began to slide the razor smoothly over the contours of his face and neck, rinsing the foam off the blade under the running tap until all but the residue was left on his skin. He used both hands to scoop cold water from the tap and rinse his face then turned so that William could feel his jaw again. The little boy's face was a picture of delight.

'It's all soft now!' he declared. Sherlock nodded and pointed out the small dark flecks of facial hair in the wash basin before rinsing them away.

'Now comes the hard bit,' he explained. He picked up the bottle of his favourite cologne, Attimo pour Homme. Taking off the lid, he held out the bottle so that William could smell it.

'It smells like you, Daddy!' he squealed, with surprise.

'I smell like that because I use it every day. It's called cologne or after-shave. After you shave, you have to use this, or something like it, to tighten the pores of your skin. It stings a bit, at first, but it stops your skin getting sore from shaving and it makes you smell nice.' He poured a little of the cologne into the palm of one hand, rubbed his hands together, briefly then applied it to his face and neck.

'You want to try some?' he asked. William nodded and so Sherlock applied some of the residue from his hands to William's soft cheeks. It tingled a little and made his skin feel cold but did not sting. He inhaled the fragrance.

'I smell like you now,' he smiled and Sherlock nodded and lifted him off the side of the bath to hug him, warmly.

'When will I be old enough to learn to shave, Daddy?' he asked.

'Oh, in about ten years, when you're about fifteen, maybe sooner, maybe later. I was about fifteen when I learned. I leaned at school. One of the older boys showed me.'

On his internal monitor, Sherlock replayed his housemaster ordering the Head of House to instruct him in the art of shaving, when he returned from a school holiday with a fledgling beard. Facial hair was not permitted. This earned him Skew and 'doubles' - the Harrow equivalent of a detention and lines – and the ignominy of having to be taught to shave by a disgruntled Senior boy, to the great amusement of the rest of the house.

'Didn't your daddy teach you?' William asked, innocently. Sherlock hugged him even closer then replied,

'No, William, he didn't. But it will be my pleasure and great honour to teach you and Freddie how to shave. I will look forward to it.' He gazed into his son's eyes, to confirm that this was a solemn promise, then smiled to lighten the mood.

'Shall we get dressed, then we can go and get some breakfast?' he enthused, and carried William from the bathroom.

ooOoo

The family were just returning from breakfast, crossing the marble foyer towards the lifts, when a very elegant older lady, standing by the Reception desk, called Sherlock's name. He stopped and turned to look toward her, as she approached, smiling broadly and extending her hand.

'Sherlock Holmes,' she gushed. 'I recognised you as soon as I saw you. You have your mother's eyes and her bone structure. And this has to be William! He looks exactly as you did, the last time I saw you.'

Sherlock took her hand and shook it, politely, then gave her three pecks on the cheeks – right, left and right again – in the manner he had been taught by his mother. Molly stood by, Freddie wriggling in her arms, and watched this ritual with a sense of wonder. Had she known the slightest thing about Sherlock's background, she would probably have run a mile. She would certainly never have contemplated inviting him for coffee – even though he had sidestepped her invitation cleverly, by pretending to misunderstand. She had accepted his unattainability because of his lack of interest in the fairer sex, in general. But had she known how blue his blood was, she would have thrown in the towel so much sooner or maybe never picked up the towel in the first place.

'Molly, how lovely to meet you at last,' Caro continued, 'and this, of course, is Freddie.'

At the mere mention of his name, Freddie crowed with excitement and reached both arms toward the lady.

'May I?' she asked Molly, who nodded, dumbly, and handed over the slightly grubby post-breakfast, pre-cleanup child to this elegant, beautifully dressed lady, with a fair degree of trepidation. Freddie gabbled away at Caro, delivering all his best chat-up lines, from 'Look a' dat!' to 'Wimmin' Poo' now, ye'?'

Caro was an adept baby wrangler and responded enthusiastically to all the toddler's overtures, while Sherlock stared at her through a haze of half-recalled childhood images, William stood just behind his father's right leg, watching the strange woman, suspiciously, and Molly smiled with polite embarrassment, wondering what honorific she should be applying to this grand lady.

Presently, Caro returned Freddie to his mother, reluctantly, and turned to her dear friend's youngest son.

'I came a little early to meet the family, of course, but also to fill you in on a few things I thought you might wish to know prior to your meeting today.'

Sherlock seemed still to be distracted by his thoughts so there was a brief, uncomfortable pause until Molly took control of the situation.

'Why don't you go to the coffee lounge and have your chat, Sherlock? I'll take the boys back to the room and get them changed for the swimming pool. We'll see you after your meeting.'

With that, she reached a hand up to his shoulder and he inclined forward, automatically, to kiss her briefly on the lips.

'Good luck, darling,' she murmured, with an encouraging smile, at which his eyes focused, at last, on her face and he kissed her again and gave her a small smile in return, then kissed Freddie before bending to William and kissing him, too.

'You boys be good for Mummy and have fun in the pool,' he advised the little ones, 'I'll see you later.'

He then turned to the lady, waiting politely, and extended his arm to invite her to walk towards the coffee lounge, as Molly and the children disappeared into the lift.

ooOoo


	5. Loose Ends Chapter 4

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Four**

Caro and Sherlock settled themselves in two comfortable chairs and the waiter took their order. Sherlock was rather unsettled by the flood of vague childhood impressions that had assailed him on encountering this woman, face to face. She could see that he was discomforted by her presence and tried to assuage this.

'You remember me, don't you,' she began, more as a statement than a question.

He wrinkled his brows and pursed his lips, for a moment, before answering.

'I remember….something. It's more an impression than a memory. I see bright sunlight and smell…..violets.'

'You were very young – about five years old, I think. I was visiting your mother, snatching a couple of days of school day reminiscences, whilst our husbands wrangled over some international trade treaty or other. We two ladies were sitting out in the garden, taking afternoon tea, when you suddenly burst onto the scene, charging out of the bushes, screaming like a banshee! I thought you were the most beautiful child I'd ever seen,' she smiled, warmly, at the memory.

As she spoke, the clouded image of the scene resolved into clarity in Sherlock's mind's eye. As it did so, his face gradually darkened and his brows knit.

'Your mother, unfortunately, was not best pleased,' Caro concluded.

Sherlock made a small, unconscious, dismissive gesture with his hand, seeming to metaphorically shake himself, and cleared his throat.

'You said you had some information to share, prior to the meeting?' he prompted, focusing on the business in hand, pushing the uncomfortable feelings aside.

Caro responded in kind.

'We have good news for Maria.'

She paused, for a moment, whilst the waiter served their drinks – black coffee for Sherlock, mint tea for herself – then went on.

'We have managed to trace her family, through the DNA database that we are developing.'

'Does she know?'

'No, we only had confirmation yesterday and, since I had already arranged this meeting, I thought we may as well kill two birds with one stone. I wondered if you might like to give her the news yourself.'

Sherlock put his fingers to his lips, in a pensive gesture, then spoke.

'What have they been told about this meeting?'

'Only that someone wishes to meet with them, someone they know but not a relative – we didn't want to build false hopes.'

Sherlock was perturbed. This complicated things. He did not want Rocky's two closest friends to think that information about Maria's family was some sort of bribe – accept my apology and I'll tell you some good news. Nor did he want them to imagine that he was trying to sweeten the pill of confronting them with the details of Rocky's death, with this good news. It was a case of extremely bad timing. He made a decision.

'I want to meet them first, before you tell them the news. Once I have talked to them, you can give them the information about Maria's next of kin. I don't want the two things to be seen as connected.'

Caro was slightly taken aback by his abrupt manner – so different from his brother – but she was a seasoned professional and did not miss a beat.

'Very well, Sherlock, as you wish.'

'Maria's family,' he asked, 'Who have you found?'

'Through the DNA database, we identified her grandfather. When we went to see him, we found that, since giving the sample, he had passed away, but her grandmother was still alive and she was able to put us in touch with the rest of the family.'

'Her parents?'

'No, unfortunately, both her parents are missing – presumed dead, by the family. Apparently, Maria's parents left the town where they had grown up, met, married and started a family and came to Rio in search of work, bringing their two children with them. It seems that was the last anyone heard from them.'

'Two children?'

'Yes, Maria and her older brother, Joseph. When the DNA gathering team went to the town in Sao Paulo, the grandfather came forward to give samples specifically in the hope of being reunited with his son or his grandchildren. Unfortunately, by the time we made the connection, the man had died, but Maria has aunts and uncles and cousins, too.'

'What about the brother? What happened to him?' Sherlock asked, dreading that he may already know the answer to that question.

'Rocky was her brother,' Caro replied, in a low voice, then resisted the urge to reach out a comforting hand, as she saw Sherlock's face twist in a grimace of self-reproach. She didn't think this strange, enigmatic man would appreciate any overt shows of empathy, on such short acquaintance. And she was right. It took him a moment or two to recover his composure but then he looked at her directly and said,

'We should go.'

They both rose and she led the way from the coffee lounge, through the marble foyer and out to the waiting chauffeur-driven car.

ooOoo

Sherlock did not speak at all on the drive to the meeting place. He sat, gazing resolutely through the side window of the sleek black limousine, his eyes concealed by the wrap-around Ray-Bans, holding his clenched fist to his chin, nibbling at the tip of his thumb. The knowledge that what he had suspected – Maria and Rocky being siblings – was true had come at a bad time. It would make his task even more difficult. But he had to 'screw _his_ courage to the sticking place'. He was committed to do this thing. He had come half way around the world to do it. There was no backing out, now.

As they approached the location of the Children's Centre, Caro's mobile rang. She answered and had a brief conversation then gave instructions to the driver before turning to Sherlock.

'Maria and Ru'e have arrived. We will take the tradesmen's entrance, so we don't run into them prematurely.'

He acknowledged this with a curt nod.

The car turned off the main highway, down a narrow service road, before turning into a delivery area. As it drew to a halt, a man in casual clothes stepped out of the back door of the building and opened the rear door of the car, offering his hand to Caro and speaking to her in Portuguese. Sherlock opened the door on his side and stepped out, then walked around the back of the car to where Caro was waiting. She introduced him to the Centre Manager, Raoul.

'This is Mr Holmes, our founder and main benefactor.'

Sherlock had specifically insisted that there were to be no fanfares or razzamatazz to greet him when he arrived at the Rocky Foundation Day Centre, so he was slightly irritated by Caro's grand introduction, but he shook the man's hand and interrupted any potential gushing by remarking,

'Let's get on, shall we?'

Caro and Raoul took the hint and showed him into the building, through a small kitchen, down an internal corridor and, finally, into an office or interview room, which was furnished with a desk, some filing cabinets and several chairs. Once inside, with the door closed, Caro turned to him.

'How would you like this to proceed?'

He looked around the room and pointed to a chair by the window, which could not be seen from the door.

'I'll sit there. Perhaps you would sit there?' he indicated a chair between the window and the door, 'and they can sit there,' as he indicated two chairs, against the opposite wall. With that layout, if Ru'e or Maria chose to leave the room, they would not have to pass him to do so and Caro was positioned as a buffer between him and them. He did not want them to feel obliged to continue the meeting if they didn't wish to stay voluntarily.

Caro nodded, Sherlock sat down and Raoul was given the go-ahead to bring the two former street children to the room. Caro seated herself where Sherlock had indicated. There was a brief pause, as they waited for the guests to arrive, and Caro noted that Sherlock sat easily in the chair, looking cool and elegant, but still wearing his Ray-Bans, thus concealing the windows to his soul. There was the sound of voices approaching and Caro rose to greet them as Maria and Ru'e entered the room. By standing, she was effectively blocking their view of the seated man behind her but, having exchanged a few pleasantries with the two young people, she turned to introduce Sherlock.

As Caro stepped out of their line of sight, Sherlock rose to his feet and removed his sunglasses. He looked first at Ru'e and then at Maria, noting the questioning looks in their eyes and then the dawning of recognition. Before Caro could get to his name, the young man gasped,

'Holmes!'

'Hello, Ru'e, Maria, it's good to see you,' Sherlock replied, in Portuguese. They all stood, as though in a frozen tableau, for a good few seconds, but then Maria suddenly uttered a high-pitched scream and hurled herself across the room at Sherlock, throwing her small, slim arms around him and hugging him to her tiny frame.

'Holmes, you are safe! We were so worried. We always wondered what became of you! Thank God you are OK!'

Sherlock hardly knew what to say or do or think. He put one arm around Maria and bent his head to rest on top of hers, whilst looking at Ru'e, who still stood in an attitude of stunned amazement, staring at him. But then, Rocky's wing man strode across the floor and also threw his arms around Sherlock, muttering,

'I always hoped you would return. I never thought you would.'

Sherlock closed his other arm around the smaller man and all three stood in a group embrace, whilst Caro waited nearby, smiling, with shining eyes, and Raoul hovered by the door, also smiling and rubbing his hands together, with satisfaction. This room had seen many emotional reunions, since the DNA gathering had begun to bear fruit, but few quite as poignant as this one, as they all remembered the one person they would never see again.

ooOoo

Molly sat on a sun lounger, by the side of the pool, in the shade of a large canopy, with Freddie asleep, on the mattress, beside her. She watched William playing in the splash pool area. He was intent on some sort of experiment, she could tell.

He was taking lungs full of air then stretching out, like a starfish, face down on top of the water, where he would float for a while and then slowly sink, as bubbles rose around him. He would then remain submerged, lying on the bottom of the pool, for at least a minute, before bursting back through the surface, like a breaching whale. It took Molly a moment or two to figure out that he was exhaling to reduce his buoyancy and make himself sink to the bottom of the pool, where he remained until necessity compelled him to resurface.

Molly glanced across to the hotel life guard and saw that he was observing William with suspicion bordering on concern. She tried to catch the man's eye, to tell him it was OK but he resolutely refused to look her way and, eventually, after William had repeated this stunt half a dozen times, the man put his whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast on it. Everyone in the pool area, including William, stopped what they were doing and looked toward the man. He pointed at William and gestured for him to approach the lookout post, where the duty lifeguard always sat. William complied, obediently, as Molly looked on from her sun lounger.

'What are you doing?' the man asked, in heavily accented English.

'Playing,' William replied, also in English, and then repeated the word in Portuguese.

'Playing at what?' the man enquired, in Portuguese but enunciating each word clearly and accompanying them with hand gestures.

'Submarines', William replied.

'Submarinos?' the man repeated.

'Sim, submarinos,' replied the little boy.

'Então você não está tentando se afogar?' the man asked, whilst miming holding his nose and sinking under water then pretending to be dead.

'Tentando se afogar? Nao, senhor,' William replied, correctly extracting the part of the man's sentence that referred to the act of drowning and assuring him this was not his intention.

'OK, pode continuar,' the man replied, with a wry smile and gestured for William to return to his game. The little boy smiled, nodded and trotted back to the pool steps, climbing back down into the water and resumed his game of submarines.

Molly also gave a wry smile, shook her head and settled back on the lounger to watch her son continue his floatation experiment.

ooOoo

Sherlock, Ru'e and Maria, having eventually broken from their group hug, took their seats and began to talk, excitedly, all at once but Sherlock held up a hand and the chatter ceased.

'Before we go any further, I want you both to know how much I regret what I did to Rocky.' His voice almost broke, when he said the name that was in all their thoughts but he fought hard and regained control. Clearing his throat, he went on,

'It was so dark in the forest. I had told Rocky to run away, to save himself and protect you all. But he came back. I heard him behind the tree. I thought he was the Little Demon. I grabbed him by the throat and just kept squeezing until he was dead. I didn't know it was him until I saw the real Demon. He knew I had accidentally killed my friend – your friend, your brother, Maria – and he laughed. So, I killed him, too, the same way.'

As he spoke these harrowing words, he curled his fingers, as though round an imaginary neck, and squeezed. He closed his eyes. His face was a mask of remorse, as he remembered the moment when he realised what he had done.

'I would understand if you hated me,' he concluded, opening his eyes to kook at the other two.

Maria reached across and took his hand, the one that had strangled the life out of her brother, and kissed it.

'We don't hate you. We don't blame you. We blamed the man who sent the Demon to find you,' she assured him.

'And we took our revenge….' Ru'e began, but Sherlock held up a finger to hush him. He did not wish the young man to jeopardise his future by admitting to the killing of Moriarty's lieutenant.

'I know what you did, Ru'e, you don't need to tell me. And I am grateful to you, both for that and for not hating me. I am indebted to you and all the other people in your little family who hid me and looked after me and helped me to escape. Without your help, I would be dead, for sure. Which is why my brother and I set up this centre, in order to help you and all the other street kids - though you aren't so much kids any more,' he concluded, with a lop-sided smile.

It was only now that he inclined his head toward Maria, to acknowledge her swollen belly.

'A baby, Maria? You're going to be a mum?'

She smiled, coyly, and reached out to take Ru'e's hand.

'Yes,' Ru'e answered for her, grinning with pride, 'we are having a baby. We are married, now.'

Sherlock offered his hand to the smaller man, for a congratulatory shake, then leaned over to give Maria a peck on the cheek.

'I am so happy for you,' he declared, with genuine feeling. 'But Caro has some more good news for you,' he announced and turned to the older lady, who had sat quietly through the conversation so far.

Caro smiled and turned to the young couple, as they sat, hand in hand, wearing puzzled expressions.

'Maria, we have found your baby a family.'

ooOoo


	6. Loose Ends Chapter 5

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Five**

Molly was just trying to decide whether to take the boys to the restaurant for lunch or order by the pool when her text alert pinged on her phone. She pulled it out from the little pocket in her beach bag and saw it was from Sherlock.

_On my way back. Where are you? S_

She quickly tapped a reply.

_By the pool. How was it? Mx_

The reply came back almost at once. He was such a fast texter! (Or he anticipated her question, she thought, wryly.)

_Better than I could have hoped. All good. S_

She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as she tapped,

_Is Caro with you? Mx_

_Yes. Why? S_

_Invite her to lunch. Mx_

_Why? S_

_Because it's the right thing to do. Mx_

There was a longer pause and then the phone pinged again.

_She says yes. S_

Molly smiled again and replied.

_I'll reserve a table. See you soon. Love you. Mx_

_Yes. Ditto. S_

Molly stood up and called to William, who was in the paddling pool with Freddie, just a few feet from the sun lounger that she had commandeered for the use of the family for the morning.

'It's time to get out now, babe. Daddy's on his way back and we need to go back to our suite and change for lunch.'

As she spoke, she crossed the short distance to the pool, stepped into the water and picked up her youngest son, who was sitting in his bath seat, that she had brought along for use in the paddling pool. It stabilised him in the water so he could play independently, rather than having to have her hovering over him the whole time.

'Can you gather up Freddie's toys, please, Will?' she asked, as she wrapped Freddie in a towel and balanced him on her hip for the transfer back to the hotel suite, having thrown on her own beach wrap and pushed her feet into her crocs. William obliged by collecting all Freddie's floating toys form the pool and stuffing them into the net bag, which was their home when they were not in use.

Shouldering the beach bag and checking that she had left nothing behind, Molly prepared to leave the pool area, then remembered the lunch table. She raised a polite finger, to attract the attention of one of the several waiters who were hovering near the bar, waiting to jump to the beck and call of the patrons. She hated the way some of the hotel guests snapped their fingers, imperiously, at the service staff. She adopted Sherlock's tactic. He had been practically raised by the staff in his family home so he had a great respect for people in the service industries.

A young man came trotting over.

'Yes, madam, how can I be of service?' he asked.

Molly was still not accustomed to all this 'being waited on' malarkey and she found it quite embarrassing.

'Oh, Manuel,' she said, reading his name badge, 'would it be possible to reserve a table in the restaurant for lunch, in about three-quarters of an hour?'

'Of course, madam, it will be my pleasure. How many will be taking luncheon?'

'Three adults, one child and one baby,' Molly explained, so that the restaurant staff would know they needed a high chair for Freddie and a booster cushion for William. The waiter scribbled her instructions on his pad then said,

'Will there be anything further, madam?'

'No, thank you, that will be fine, thanks,' she stammered, nervously, reminding herself of the old Molly. Well, she thought, in some ways it was good to know that the old Molly still existed. She would hate to get blasé about all this luxury. It would not do to get airs and graces and forget about her Socialist Northampton roots. Her dad would never forgive her for that. Although, she knew her dad would approve of her choice of life partner. He would see all the good in Sherlock that so many people missed because of his crusty exterior.

Gathering up her children and her belongings, Molly made her way back to the suite, got herself and the children showered down and changed into day clothes and was just about ready to leave the sitting room and go down to the restaurant when the suite door opened and Caro entered, closely followed by Sherlock.

Molly crossed the floor to greet them, accepting a motherly hug and a peck on the cheek from Caro, who then was intercepted by Freddie who had decided that all visitors to any Hooper-Holmes residence were, naturally, there to see him. William skirted around Caro, who bent over Freddie, sitting on the floor in the middle of the rug, haranguing her with loud exhortations. The older child only had eyes for his daddy. He hurried over to him and was immediately hoisted into the air and hugged to the paternal chest.

Molly looked at her significant other and was relieved at what she saw. This was a very different Sherlock from the one that had left the hotel that morning. He was visibly more relaxed. In fact, all the tension seemed to have leeched from him, his smile was easy, his eyes twinkled and, for the first time in a very long time, he actually looked happy.

As Molly approached, he slipped William onto his left hip and put his right arm about Molly's torso, pressing his lips to her temple as he crushed her to his side.

'I'll tell you all about it later,' he mumbled into her hair and she nodded, then raised her head and brushed his lips with hers.

'Alright, let's do lunch!' she announced, cheerily.

ooOoo

Lunch was an enjoyable affair, with Freddie entertaining them all with his off-the-cuff adlibs and William impressing with his growing grasp of Brazilian Portuguese.

'Your mother had a gift for languages, Sherlock, which I see you have inherited and passed on to young William, here. Violet would be very proud of you,' Caro enthused.

'Would she?' Sherlock retorted. 'Would she really?'

There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation which Caro covered expertly by changing the subject, entirely.

'You really must come to a garden party I'm arranging, on Sunday. It will be lovely for the children. They'll have lots of space to run around and it will give you an opportunity to meet a few people, whom it may be useful for you to know, if you get my drift.'

Sherlock pursed his lips. He was not a huge fan of social gatherings of any sort, especially large society bashes. He had far too many bad memories of the ones his mother used to hold at their house – from which he was often barred, for being too intrusive and outspoken about the guests' personal lives. But Molly's face clouded over for an entirely different reason.

'Oh, I really don't think we could, Caro, though it is awfully kind of you to invite us.'

'Why ever not, my dear? You would so enjoy it and my friends would really enjoy meeting you and your lovely family,' Caro replied.

'Well, we didn't really bring any dressed up clothes with us – not the sort of things one would wear to a garden party, anyway.'

This was true. Sherlock had brought his usual designer suits and a couple of linen suits, in deference to the tropical heat, but Molly and the boys had stuck to casualwear.

'Then you must let me take you shopping,' the older woman exclaimed. 'Really, you can't come to Rio and not go shopping. It would be a crime against womanhood!'

Molly looked at Sherlock, who shrugged his shoulders.

'If you want to go shopping, you go, Molly. I can do something with the boys. You can buy clothes for them without having them with you, can't you? You often do,' Sherlock stated, quite correctly.

'Well, yes, I can but…..'

'Then that is settled!' concluded Caro. 'How about the day after tomorrow?' She looked at Molly, who looked at Sherlock, who simply shrugged again.

'Alright, thank you very much, Caro, I would love to go shopping with you. It's very kind of you to invite me. And we will be very happy to come to the garden party, too. Sherlock will probably hide in the library – I'm sure you have one – but the boys will have fun and I'm sure I will too,' Molly replied, with a girlish grin. It had been ages since she had been on a girlie shopping trip and she had the feeling that Caro would know exactly the sort of places she would like to go.

When lunch was over, Caro departed to attend to her afternoon commitments. Over lunch, William had asked if Rio had a zoo and was assured that indeed it did have a very fine zoo, the Jardim Zoologico da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, near the Quinta de Boa Vista Park. She then went on to insist that they allow her to loan them her car and driver for the afternoon, so that he could take them there. Sherlock thanked her and accepted the kind gesture. So, as Caro left, she informed them that, having reached her first destination, she would send the car back for them, giving them plenty of time to prepare for their trip to the zoo.

ooOoo

As Caro was chauffeured to her first appointment, she mused about her experience so far of her dear friend's youngest child. He was clearly conflicted about his mother and not without good reason, she knew that. Much as she had loved Violet, Caro had never been able to reconcile herself to the utter indifference the woman had shown to her second child, in contrast to the manner in which she had always lavished affection on the older boy.

Caro had no children of her own, which had been a source of great sorrow in her life, and she envied her friend so much for having borne two such clever, talented, gifted sons. Of course, she understood better than anyone – other than Violet herself – the origins of the mother's animosity toward her last born. She could see with crystal clarity the evidence of the damage which that animosity had caused in this man. He was emotionally scarred, of that there was no doubt. But, despite his difficult early life, he was clearly devoted to his own family. He was a good father and a loyal, loving partner to Molly. That was nothing short of a miracle, in her eyes.

She wondered whether she had a moral responsibility to try to explain to him why his mother had so blatantly rejected him. She barely knew him. How would he feel about hearing these home truths about his own personal history from her, a virtual stranger? But Molly was a sensitive girl, she could tell. She would sound her out, on their shopping trip, and gauge whether or not to even attempt to shed light on Violet's relationship with her youngest son. Some things were better left unsaid. She was still not sure whether revealing what she had known and kept secret for all these years would cause more harm than good.

ooOoo

The trip to the zoo was a huge success. On arrival, the Hooper-Holmes contingent split into two groups, Molly taking Freddie to the little farm, where he spent a happy hour or so admiring all the cute little furry animals and feeding them on the bags of animal nuts they bought from the gift shop. However, the thing that really grabbed his attention was the tropical bird aviary where he gazed and marvelled at the macaws, toucans and colourful parrots. The noise alone, in that particular part of the zoo, was impressively suggestive of being in the depths of the Amazon Jungle. Other birds for which he found a sudden passion, were the Large Billed and Great White hawks, the eagles, the penguins and the emus, which were extremely persistent at demanding to be fed and didn't really care what they fed on – including the odd unfortunate body part.

Sherlock and William found a small collection of native spiders – of which William proved to be especially knowledgeable, recognising them from various wildlife documentaries he had watched, at home, on TV. They spent the rest of the afternoon admiring the amphibians and reptiles, which included frogs, toads, tortoises, turtles, alligators, iguana and an impressive number of poisonous snakes.

Sherlock was particularly intrigued by these, having read about them, extensively, following his own encounter with snake venom neurotoxins. He spent a long time explaining to William the various types of venom produced by the different kinds of snake and the effects these had on the physiology of the prey. William listened with rapt attention and asked some insightful questions, storing away the data to be processed and catalogued, later.

It was two very tired children who were fed and bathed and put to bed that evening, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone to enjoy the view from the balcony. This time, there was not retreating into the sitting room. When Molly emerged from the boys' bedroom, having only completed half a page of The Big Friendly Giant before both boys were sound asleep, Sherlock was already reclining on the sun lounger, in his thinking pose, but when she came out through the huge windows, he opened his eyes and reached out an arm to invite her to join him.

She stretched out on the lounger beside him, pressed close together, since it was only three feet wide, and he wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin as she laid a hand on his shoulder. Neither spoke. They just lay together, enjoying the intimacy of their proximity and reviewing the events of the day in their own heads.

Sherlock felt more at peace than he had for a very long time – approximately six months, in fact. Meeting Ru'e and Maria had been a cathartic experience. They had shared some memories and felt some very strong emotions and, somehow, he felt cleansed by that, as though his long held guilt had been burned away. He would tell Molly all about it but, for now, he just wanted to feel her skin next to his, feel her heart beat against his ribs and run his fingers through the soft strands of her hair, breathing in her scent and gently brushing the tips of his fingers, up and down her arm.

ooOoo


	7. Loose Ends Chapter 6

**E Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Six**

Molly lay on the narrow sun lounger, moulding her frame to Sherlock's, and trying very hard not to give in to hope. This was the closest they had been in a very long time. Over the preceding six months, they had shared a bed, they had enjoyed embraces and hugs, they had exchanged kisses but it was as though there were a barrier, some sort of invisible membrane, between them, holding them apart.

In the immediate aftermath of The Incident, as Molly had labelled Irene's sexual assault on Sherlock, they had both consulted a rape counsellor with disastrous consequences for him. It was too much, too soon and had pushed him over the edge. It had taken many weeks of intensive psychiatric care to rehabilitate him, emotionally, but during that time and since, Molly had continued to consult with the rape counsellor in order to deal with her own trauma and to learn how to help him with his.

After he returned home, they had made several abortive attempts at physical intimacy but the emotional distress that failure wrought in both of them had led to their decision to stop trying. The rape counsellor had suggested they concentrate on cementing their emotional relationship and, when the time was right, the physical side would reassert itself. This trip to Brazil was part of that emotional healing. Sherlock had needed to make his peace with Rocky's 'family'. The burden of guilt had become oppressive. But today, he had done just that and the change in him was palpable. His whole demeanour seemed lighter, brighter, absolved.

As she lay against him, the muscular tension she had felt in his body for so long that it had become the norm, was conspicuous by its absence. Had it not been for the movement of his fingertips, up and down her upper arm and combing through her hair, she would have thought he was asleep. His breathing was deep and steady, his heart rate slow, his brow smooth, not frowning.

She was curious to know exactly what had happened at the Children's Centre today but she was equally loath to disturb the peace and serenity of the mood. At moments like this, it was hard not to hope that things would get back to normal soon but she had learned from bitter experience that hope was the most dangerous of all the emotions - it could leave one doomed to disappointment.

The hand that had been playing with her hair changed tack, stroked along her jawline and tilted her face up toward his, as he brought his lips down to meet hers. The kiss was such an exquisite blend of passion and tenderness that she felt her stomach clench and a gasping sigh escape her lungs. She almost froze, concerned that she had responded too overtly to the kiss, causing him stress by implying expectations, but he didn't pause or tense up at all. The hand that had been stroking her arm moved to her back and drew her closer until she was almost lying on top of him.

She opened her eyes and found that he was gazing at her, intently. His pupils were blown wide, with the slimmest corona of opal iris visible. The surprise must have shown in her eyes but he seemed unperturbed. He brushed her hair off her face and ran his hand over her scalp to the back of her head, pulling her mouth back to his. This kiss was deeper, more passionate, more intense. Molly had no option but to respond. She pushed into him and allowed her hands to move over his body, pressing her palms against his skin, feeling the swell and ripple of his pectorals, his abdominals, his quadriceps.

Molly was a pathologist. She knew the name and function of every muscle in the human body. As she ran her hands over him, she felt his muscles contract and relax in response to her touch. She knew his body better than she knew her own, having explored every inch of it, learned every contour, memorised every feature. It had been so long since she touched that body, it was like greeting an old friend and, as with every reunion, the emotion of the moment was almost too much to bear.

But the sun lounger was beginning to show its limitations as a venue for this level of intimacy and Sherlock seemed more aware of this than she was.

'Molly, Molly,' he breathed, 'we need to move this inside.'

She almost groaned. This was not a good time to be interrupted. But he was already gathering her up in his grasp and struggling to his feet. She draped her arms about his shoulders and nibbled at the lobe of his ear as he carried her through the open window, straight across the sitting room, into the master bedroom and to the bed. They both crashed onto the mattress and, in a haze ofcomplete abandon, began to peel off their own and each other's clothing, whilst crushing their lips against one another's flesh.

Now they were both naked, the sensory overload was beyond conscious thought. It had been so long since either of them had experienced such a level of arousal, it felt almost like the first time. Both slick with perspiration, in a tangle of limbs and unruly hair, they rolled and coiled about each other, gasping, groaning, panting. Lips, tongues and fingers returned to well-remembered sensitive spots, found familiar erogenous zones and the stimulation increased exponentially.

Molly's body burned with pent up passion. He knew her so well. He knew how to please her, to tease her, how to bring her to the very brink of orgasmic ecstasy, and then move on to another part of her anatomy and begin the whole process again, until she was moaning, in a delirium of sensual excitation, writhing under his touch, begging for climactic fulfilment. Until, at last, with the merest brush of his tongue, he released a seismic wave of euphoria which swept through her entire body and, as the tsunami subsided, left her limp and sated, in a state of utter bliss. Sherlock collapsed back onto the mattress beside her, reached out and pulled the duvet over both of them. He wrapped his limbs about her and held her. secure and protected, as she drifted into deep and dreamless oblivion.

ooOoo

Much later, Molly surfaced, with an urgent need to use the toilet. She extricated herself from his embrace and stumbled to the bathroom. Washing her hands and recalling the events of the evening, it gradually dawned upon her that, although he had taken every pain to fulfil her needs completely, his own had not been met at all. She was shocked to think she had only just realised this. How could she have not seen what he was doing? Her fragile inner peace was shattered. It wasn't mended. The barrier was still there. The switch inside his head was still stuck in the 'off' position. She returned to the bedroom and climbed back into bed.

As she settled up against him, he reached out and enveloped her in his arms. She could see his eyes glinting in the light from the bedroom window. He was awake.

'Sherlock?'

'Hmm?'

'Thank you so much for that.'

'For what?' he asked, looking directly at her.

'That. It was all about me, wasn't it?'

'Not only about you,' he contradicted, 'I enjoyed it immensely, too.'

'Did you? Really?' she questioned, the doubt reflected in her tone of voice

'Of course,' he assured her.

'But you didn't….'

'Molly.' He placed a finger on her lips. 'What we did tonight, you and I, that meant more to me than any other time we've made love - ever.'

He paused, to allow the sincerity of his words to resonate with her.

'Before tonight, I didn't know if we could ever be intimate again.'

She reached up to touch his cheek and he placed his hand over hers.

'Now, I know we can. I know we will.'

He turned his head and dropped a whisper of a kiss into the palm of her hand.

'It may take a while longer but it's going to be alright,' he sighed and curled his body around hers, stroking her hair, calming her fears and soothing her back to sleep.

ooOoo

Molly awoke the next morning to the sound of the waves, through the open window. She stretched and rolled over, immediately aware that his side of the bed was empty. She sat up and looked around, wondering what time it was and then heard voices, coming from the sitting room. Through the closed bedroom door, she discerned the deep rumble of Sherlock's baritone and the more melodic chirrups of William and Freddie. Daddy was on the case.

Molly rolled over onto her side and curled into a ball, recalling the events of the night before. Just thinking about their love-making sent a post-orgasmic shudder through her body. She felt her cheeks begin to glow and thought she may as well have a flashing neon sign on her head, saying,

'I had sex with my partner last night!'

This made her giggle like a school girl as she rolled out of bed and wandered into the sitting room, collecting her dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door on the way.

The table in their sitting room was set for breakfast. Sherlock had clearly been on to Room Service and they had delivered a veritable feast. He and the boys were seated round the table and the little ones were tucking into croissants and Palma ham, whilst he sipped a cup of black coffee. She came up behind Sherlock's chair and put her arms around his shoulders, kissing him on the back of the neck and then said 'good morning' to them all and kissed her boys, too, before taking her seat at the table.

'You should have woken me,' she declared, as Sherlock poured her a cup of coffee and handed it across the table.

'Why? You were sleeping so soundly and you are, after all, on holiday,' he replied.

As she sipped her coffee, William, who had been watching her, intently, ever since she entered the room, piped up,

'Mummy, is it your birthday?'

'No, sweetie,' she laughed. 'Why do you think that?'

'You look sort of happy and excited, like you do when someone gives you a present. I know it's not Christmas, so I just wondered if it was your birthday.'

Sherlock and Molly exchanged a furtive glance and both stifled a smirk. Living with one deductive genius was bad enough. Living with two – she would have to learn to be a little more inscrutable.

'No, I'm just happy to be here, on holiday, with you both and Daddy. It feels like a birthday, every day.'

William seemed happy with that explanation and he turned to Sherlock and said,

'Where are all the children we are going to meet, daddy?'

Molly assumed this was a continuation of the conversation she had interrupted, when she entered the room.

'We're going to a place called The Rocky Foundation Children's Centre. It's like a school but the children go there to play and to see the doctor, as well as to have lessons. The children there don't live with their parents, like you and Freddie do, so they need someone else to look after them. I think you'll like it there and you'll be able to practice your Portuguese. I don't think any of the children speak English,' Sherlock explained to his son. William nodded his head and smiled, clearly looking forward to meeting some new friends and learning some more Portuguese.

As the family tucked into their breakfast, Molly reached under the table and found Sherlock's hand, giving it a squeeze. His face did not even flicker but she knew that inside he was smiling – probably giggling – as she was herself.

ooOoo


	8. Loose Ends Chapter 7

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seven**

Following breakfast, Sherlock took the boys off to their bedroom, to get them ready to go to the Children's Centre, while Molly showered and dressed, then she took over childcare duties while Sherlock did the same. It was while he was in the shower that the landline rang. Molly picked it up.

'Ah, Molly, I'm so glad it's you.' It was Caro. 'I have some unfortunate news.'

'Oh, nothing serious, I hope?' Molly was concerned.

'Well, that depends on one's point of view. I know Sherlock said he didn't want any fanfares or razzamatazz when he came to meet the staff and the children and to have a look around the Centre but I'm afraid Ru'e and Maria have taken it upon themselves to organise a reception for you and your family. I don't know how he's going to take that,' the older lady explained.

Molly considered the information, then spoke.

'Don't worry, Caro. I just won't tell him. If we turn up and it happens, he'll just have to go with it. I'll take responsibility for that.'

'Are you sure, Molly? I would hate to cause trouble between you.'

'Oh, it won't come to that. He can be quite resilient when he has to be. We'll see you there.'

When Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, Molly gave him an appraising look. In his cream linen suit, white shirt and Oxford shoes, he looked like a catwalk model. She had to resist the urge to say 'wow!' But she cocked her head on one side. He looked at her, wrinkled his brow and shrugged.

'What?' he asked.

'You know, you could do with a hat.'

'I hate hats,' he replied, emphatically.

'But you would look great in a hat!'

'Why would I care what I look like?'

'Sherlock Holmes, don't you give me that. If you didn't care about your appearance, you wouldn't go around dressed like you do.'

'Alright, I like to look smart. I don't care about looking great.'

'But I care that you do! And, anyway, in this strong sunlight, with your pale skin tone, you need a hat for health reasons.'

'I've already used the sunscreen.'

'Ok, but there's heatstroke, too. It's not good to have the sun on your head. Lots of men wear hats in the Tropics.'

'I'm not 'lots of men'. I'm just myself.'

'A panama hat would be perfect. It would really suit you.'

'Molly…'

'No, trust me, I know what I'm talking about.'

He looked at her, slightly exasperated. She could be so insistent, sometimes.

'There's a shop in the hotel foyer that sells panamas. Just try one on. You might like it.'

Sherlock knew when he was beaten. Molly would not give in until he had tried on a damn hat. Ok, he would try one on and then she would see that hats did not suit him. Molly could tell she had won that round. She smiled, stood on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek and then called to the boys that it was time to go.

Caro's car was picking them up at ten thirty so they had time to call into the hotel shop, on the way to the front entrance. As they entered the shop, a young man came forward and asked how he could assist them.

'Mr Holmes would like to try on a panama, please,' Molly spoke up, before Sherlock could make a bid for freedom.

'Of course, madam. What is your hat size, sir?'

'I have no idea,' Sherlock replied, tight-lipped.

The young man looked at him, with a practiced eye, then selected a hat from the display. He handed it to Sherlock, who looked at it, looked at Molly, pursed his lips and frowned, then finally submitted and plonked the hat on his head.

'May I, sir?' the young man asked, politely. Resignedly, Sherlock nodded his consent. The sales assistant reached up and adjusted the hat on the detective's head, so that it sat at a rakish angle, slightly tipped over his right eye. He invited his reluctant customer to view the effect in the mirror. Sherlock turned, stiffly, toward the looking glass, on the counter, and was rather surprised by what he saw. The panama actually looked rather good on him.

He turned his head from side to side, giving the hat an appraising look, then decided to ask his most trusted advisor for their opinion.

'William, what do you think? Should I get the hat?'

William had been watching the whole process with interest.

'I think it suits you, daddy. You should get it.'

Molly smiled. Sherlock trusted William's judgement and he knew that his son could not be coerced into saying anything that he didn't actually believe. She was just relieved that the little boy approved the purchase. Meanwhile, Sherlock was completing the transaction with his credit card.

'Should I wrap the hat, sir?' the young man asked.

'No, I'll wear it, thank you,' came the reply, as the newly instated hat man slipped his Ray-Bans on, to complete the look. Molly simply shook her head, in admiration. Sherlock could wear a bin bag – he would still look beautiful

The family left the shop and walked out to the waiting car. Molly was impressed to see that Caro had provided a child seat for Freddie and a booster seat for William. She was such a considerate woman, with an almost superhuman awareness of other people's needs. It puzzled Molly as to how this incredibly empathic woman could have been such good friends with Sherlock's mother. She knew very little about Violet Holmes but what she did know suggested a self-obsessed, unemotional woman – the polar opposite of Caro. It was said that opposites attracted but how could they be so close, with so little in common? Molly had to remind herself not to prejudge. Most people thought she and Sherlock were polar opposites. They were wrong.

ooOoo

The journey to the Children's Centre was uneventful, except for Freddie giving his usual running commentary of the passing scenery. As the car approached the Centre, drawing up to the front entrance this time, Sherlock's face tightened.

'What on earth…..?'

Molly looked out of the car window to see colourful banners and bunting stretched across the forecourt of the building and hanging from the walls and windows. As they turned in through the gates and pulled up outside the building, she could see a large group of people, mostly children of various shapes, sizes and ages, lined up across the front of the centre, all dressed in what looked like their Sunday best and, over to the left, was a small musical ensemble, comprising a couple of guitars and some brass instruments. As the car drew to a halt, the band began to play loud and lively music.

She looked at Sherlock. He was horrified.

'They wanted to do it, Sherlock. They needed to say thank you for everything you've done for them. Please, don't deny them the pleasure of saying it their way,' Molly pleaded.

'You knew about this?'

'I knew about something. Caro rang while you were in the shower. I didn't know _what_ they were planning, exactly.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Don't be obtuse. You _know_ why! Now, you take care of William and just let Freddie handle this. He'll be in his element! You and William can freak out quietly, together. But, please, do try to smile!'

With that, Molly lifted Freddie out of the child seat and accepted the hand of the chauffeur, who had opened the passenger door and now assisted her from the car. She stepped toward the welcoming committee of mostly little girls, with straight black hair, olive skin and dazzling smiles, dressed in brightly coloured, frilly dresses and holding little posies of flowers. Freddie took one look at the assembly, grinned from ear to ear and squealed with excitement, to the delight of all the assembled company.

Sherlock climbed, reluctantly, from the opposite side of the car and reached back inside for William.

'Come on then, Will, we must face the music. I'm sorry. Had I known, I would have brought ear plugs.'

He hoisted William up onto the crook of his arm and walked round the car, where he was met by Ru'e, grinning broadly.

'Good surprise, eh, Holmes?' the young man chortled, offering Sherlock his hand to shake.

The taller man took his friend's hand and did manage to smile, after all. The obvious pleasure and delight of all the people around him was impossible to dismiss. Molly was right, as usual. They needed to do this, to say thank you. It was only fair that he let them have this pleasure.

Molly was going along the row of little girls, accepting the posies, graciously and, when her hands became full – which didn't take long, since she was already burdened with Freddie - handing them to Caro, who was now walking beside her, acting as interpreter, as Molly spoke no Portuguese. Freddie needed no such assistance. He just smiled and giggled and accepted all the ooh's and ah's, tickles and kisses as though they were his right by birth. She glanced back toward Sherlock and was relieved to see that he was playing the game, allowing himself to be introduced to the staff by a young man whom Molly assumed must be Ru'e, and he was actually smiling and making conversation.

When all the introductions were completed, Ru'e walked to the front of the crowd and held up a hand. The band stopped playing, immediately, and all the chatter stopped too. Sherlock stood back, trying to look inconspicuous but being head and shoulders taller than anyone else did rather militate against that. Ru's began to speak and Caro translated his words for Molly's benefit.

'Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, we are honoured today with a visit from our good friend, Holmes, who has come all the way from London in England to see us. Many years ago, my friend, Rocky, helped Holmes when he was in danger and, to say thank you for that help, Holmes built the Rocky Foundation so that we would all have somewhere to go to school, to be looked after when we are sick, to find food when we are hungry and to find friends when we are lonely. He has also helped many Street Children to find their long-lost families, as my Maria has done, just yesterday. So, today, we will say welcome to Holmes and his family because they are part of our family and families take care of each other.'

As Ru'e finished speaking, there was loud applause from all the listeners and Molly had to blink and swallow hard to hold her emotions in check, as she saw Sherlock reach out and give the young man a one-armed hug, and say something to him, which she could only imagine was a heartfelt thank you for that moving speech. He then, to her complete surprise, held up his hand, to quiet the crowd. Molly looked on in astonishment as Sherlock began to address the assembly. She looked to Caro for enlightenment and the lady obliged with a translation of his words.

'There is a saying in my country – one good turn deserves another. When Rocky found me, I was being hunted by some very bad people. He saved my life, more than once, and in doing so he lost his own. So this centre is my way of repaying Rocky for what he did for me and making sure that he is never forgotten.'

The cheering erupted once again and the musicians joined in with enthusiasm, as Caro turned to Molly and beckoned her to follow. The whole party moved inside the building and dispersed throughout the several rooms, where lots of activities were set up, for the children to show the guests of honour the sorts of things that went on at the Centre on a normal day.

Molly was beginning to understand how royalty must feel and she could not help but admire them for doing this sort of thing on an almost daily basis. Although she was enjoying seeing all the children looking so healthy and well looked after, she was finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that all these young people were estranged from their families, many were orphaned, some abandoned and others just lost. She wanted to take them all home and care for them. She felt immensely proud of Sherlock for having the idea to set this up and the grit and determination to see it become a reality, ably assisted by Mycroft and Caro, of course.

Freddie had taken himself off for a wander round the Centre, under the watchful eyes of a small group of girls, who seemed completely enamoured of him, already. Molly watched as William, much more relaxed now that the music had ceased, allowed Sherlock to put him down on the floor and then approached a group of boys, all about his height, who were playing a game which Molly recognised as Jacks – in which they bounced a ball and, in between bounces, scooped up a number of small pebbles that had been scattered on the floor.

The boys were each taking turns and, with each round, the number of pebbles increased. The winner was the one who could pick up the most pebbles and still catch the ball before it bounced a second time. William stood and watched for a few rounds until one of the boys offered the ball and the pebbles to him, inviting him to join in.

Satisfied that both the boys were being well looked after, Molly accepted an invitation from some older girls to watch them dressmaking. Caro explained that the children made their own clothes, in the main, although they occasionally received donations of clothing from other charitable organisations.

'The older girls teach the younger ones how to sew and cook, so the skills are passed down, in a rolling programme. It's the same with the boys. They show each other how to scavenge the rubbish tips and how to grow vegetables. We have a little garden out the back, where they grow things. The children need to learn to be self-sufficient and how to get by on very little. Work is hard to come by but we do have some friendly local business people who can offer us work experience, now and then. And the girls can often get work in the hotels as chambermaids. If we can give them life skills, they have a better chance of survival.'

'But where do they live, Caro?' Molly asked.

'In the favela, in huts they build themselves, mostly, or that have been built by someone else and then abandoned for some reason. Sometimes, children just disappear.'

'Disappear?' Molly repeated, with a sense of foreboding.

'Yes, I'm afraid so. There is human trafficking, here, mostly for the sex industry. These children are very vulnerable. We try to protect them as much as possible. The mere fact that we are a visible presence in their lives helps. There are easier pickings elsewhere, if you get my drift. The traffickers go for the least risky option. But, unfortunately, we can't protect them all.'

Molly's face must have reflected her revulsion at the image Caro's words had conjured in her mind.

'I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't mean to upset you,' the other lady apologised but Molly shook her head.

'No, Caro, it's not you who's upsetting me, it's the people who do these terrible things. I'm just so grateful that there are people like you and the staff here who are so dedicated to caring for these children.'

'Well, if it weren't for Sherlock and Mycroft, we wouldn't be able to do any of this. They gave us the funds to get this started. And, once you have something established, like this, it's easier to attract other benefactors because they can see where the money is going to be used. The garden party, on Sunday, is a fund-raiser. There will be a lot of quite wealthy people there, looking for good causes to give their money to. I think you and Sherlock might be just what's needed to persuade them to choose this Centre as the beneficiary of their tax avoidance strategies.'

Molly wasn't so sure.

'Sherlock's not like Mycroft, as I'm sure you've noticed. He doesn't really do diplomacy. He's more likely to insult them. He's rather good at that.'

Caro smiled.

'Then maybe he'll shame them into donating. There's more than one way to skin a cat.'

ooOoo


	9. Loose Ends Chapter 8

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eight**

Molly looked around to check where Freddie had gotten to. He was sitting in a sand pit, in the little outdoor courtyard reserved for younger children, sharing the facilities with two more little ones about his age and all three were being watched over by two young girls. Molly wondered whether these were older sisters, cousins or perhaps the mothers of the other two toddlers. They looked barely old enough to be the latter but she was not naive enough to rule it out entirely.

As she stood, watching the interaction between her youngest son and his new friends, Sherlock appeared by her side, accompanied by the young MC of the day and a very pregnant young lady.

'Molly,' he began, looking a little embarrassed, 'this is my friend Ru'e and his wife, Maria, who is Rocky's sister. Ru'e, Maria, this is my wife, Molly.'

Molly beamed at the young couple. It warmed her heart to hear Sherlock describe people as 'friends', since it was not so long ago that he had believed that he had no friends. It also gave her such a frisson when he introduced her as his wife. Despite everything they had gone through together, over the past few years, she was still secretly amazed to be sharing her life with this strange, wonderful, beautiful man. It felt like a dream and a very happy one.

With Sherlock's assistance, as interpreter, she thanked them both for the magnificent reception and Ru'e for his moving speech. She then asked Maria about her pregnancy. How far along was she? Did she hope for a girl or a boy? Did they have everything they needed for the baby, when he or she arrived? Maria replied coyly, holding Ru'e hand and wearing a shy smile. She declared that as long as the baby was born alive and healthy, she would be happy with either sex. The fervent wish of all expectant mothers, the world over, Molly agreed.

Presently, it was time for the guests of honour to depart and leave the Centre staff to proceed with business as usual. They and all the children lined up again to wave goodbye and the band performed a reprise of their welcoming fanfare. As the car pulled off and negotiated its way back onto the highway, Molly felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. Tears pricked her eyes, as she gave way to the distress that she had been feeling since they had arrived at the Children's Centre. William noticed the change in her demeanour, immediately.

'Mummy, what's the matter?' he asked, concern evident in his voice and expression.

Sherlock turned from staring out of the window and took in Molly's trembling lips and the progress of a tear that trickled down her cheek, to be brushed away, impatiently, as she tried to contain her emotional meltdown.

'I'm sorry, William. I'm just a bit sad for all those children who don't have anyone to love them. All those sweet little girls...' That declaration pretty much opened the floodgates and hre cheeks were soon drenched, her body wracked with sobs.

Sherlock put a comforting arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his chest.

'They are not alone, Molly. They are a family. Believe me, as someone who pretty much grew up in a British public school, I can see clear parallels between their experience and mine - leaving aside the hand to mouth existence, which obviously I have no knowledge of. Even though I was not particularly happy at school nor even well liked, there was still a sense of camaraderie, a feeling of belonging. They have that too. I could see it in their eyes. Most of the boys in my house – and the beaks for that matter – hated my guts but they always turned out to hear me debate and brought the roof down when I destroyed the opposition, which was pretty much every time.'

He thought for a moment, then went on.

'The definition of the word 'family' can be very broad. The time I spent in that tin hut with Rocky and the other kids, that felt like being part of a proper family. It was my first real experience of family life, outside of school.'

He brushed the salt water from her face with his thumb and gave a rueful shrug.

'And now I've got you and William and Freddie. And they have each other. Their lives are by no means perfect but they aren't tragic either. I find them rather inspirational – which is something I never imagined myself saying in a million years!' He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. 'You've bewitched me, Molly, turned me into a new man.'

She shook her head.

'No, you did that all by yourself. I just stood on the side lines and cheered. I'm alright, William. I was just having a Mummy Moment. I'm a bit prone to those,' she reassured the elder Hooper-Holmes boy who, now placated, went back to considering the degree of force required to bounce a ball and keep it in the air for the longest amount of time but still be able to catch it, and the most efficient pattern to apply to the collecting of pebbles, within the time allowed.

ooOoo

Molly was rather looking forward to her shopping trip with Caro, not least because she was dying to ask the older lady about Sherlock's mother, Violet. Sherlock had decided he would take the boys back to the day centre, where they could play safely, while he talked to the staff about the practical day to day problems of running the centre and organising and managing the DNA collection and analysis. Molly had explained Caro's plan to turn them loose on her potential benefactors. He was not particularly keen on the idea of playing the role of ambassador but he could see the logic in the plan so he wanted to be sure he could quote all the figures and be able to talk knowledgeably about current and future projects. To him, this was like researching for a school debate – know your facts so you can counter or inform any argument.

Caro arrived at ten a.m. and informed Molly that they would be driven to Shopping Leblon, Rio's newest and most exclusive shopping mall, on Avenida Afrânio de Melo Franco, after which, Sherlock and the boys would have the use of her car and driver for as long as they needed it. Molly kissed her boys – all three of them – and went with Caro, down to the waiting car.

It didn't take long to drive to the shopping mall, which was in the Leblon district, very close to Copacabana. It consisted of five floors of shops, with the entire top floor given over to restaurants and other food outlets – from the classy The Fifties, Batata Inglesa, Bibi Sucos and Chez Michu, to the more down market Viena Express, Vivenda do Camarao and Bob's.

All the big high street brands were here, like Benetton, Next and Zara, but also many designer names, such as Emporio Armani, Chanel, Calvin Klein, Ellus and Cantao. And there were, it transpired, some very exclusive little boutiques run by local designers, to sell their own creations. It was to one of these that Caro eventually brought Molly, after spending the first hour or so just browsing and taking in the futuristic ambiance of the place.

When they entered the shop, it became obvious that Caro was a regular and much valued client. They were given a very warm welcome and then her guide and host introduced Molly and explained what she was looking for. At this point, Molly realised she was to be given the film star treatment. She and Caro were seated on an elegant sofa and offered a choice of coffees, teas or champagne. Molly accepted the coffee, Caro the camomile tea and they both agreed they might indulge in a glass of champagne a little later.

Then a range of outfits were modelled for them by the house model. Molly looked at the clothes paraded before her and her heart began to sink. They all looked absolutely amazing on the tall, slender, stately model but Molly felt certain that, should she put them on, she would look like a little girl dressed in her mother's clothes. Caro quickly realised that Molly was not enjoying the experience as much as she had hoped she would.

'What is it, dear? What's troubling you,' she asked, during a break, while the model was changing.

Molly swallowed hard, not wishing to offend her hostess, who had gone to such a lot of trouble to arrange this day. Eventually, she found the right words.

'This is all very wonderful, Caro, but it just isn't me. I couldn't wear these clothes. I wouldn't feel right. I'm just not that adventurous when it comes to dressing up.'

Caro pursed her lips and gave Molly a very appraising look then seemed to come to a decision.

'You are absolutely correct, my dear. How foolish of me. I think I know what's needed here.'

She called the shop manageress over and spoke to her in Portuguese, as they both looked at Molly, nodded a lot and smiled even more, then the manageress disappeared into the studio, behind the main shop area. Molly gave the other lady a furtive glance, wondering what they had been discussing.

'I'm really sorry about this, Caro,' Molly whispered, feeling embarrassed, guilty and very ungrateful. But the older lady looked at her askance.

'Why are you sorry, Molly? You have nothing to apologise for. It's I who should be apologising. I should have seen it myself. You are a very unique and individual young woman with a style all your own. You require an individual approach. We've been going about this the wrong way. Instead of trying to fit you to the clothes, we need to fit the clothes to you.'

Even as she spoke, the manageress returned with another, younger lady, who Caro introduced to Molly.

'This is Rachelle. She is the designer of all these lovely clothes we've been looking at today. She's going to design something just for you. It will be an original – a one-off – the only one of its kind.'

Molly's mouth formed into a round 'o' as she was invited to stand and Rachelle walked around her, looking very thoughtful, for what seemed like a very long time. Just as Molly thought she would die from self-conscious embarrassment, the designer began to talk very fast in Portuguese. The manageress wrote furiously on a pad, as the younger woman gave instructions, then disappeared into the studio again. In the meantime, Rachelle began to sketch, with broad, deft strokes, on her own large pad.

'Caro, what did she say? What is she doing?' Molly asked, desperately.

'She says you have a perfect 1950's figure and would look absolutely stunning in a vintage style dress. She has sent her assistant to bring some colour swatches to compare with your natural colouring and for you to choose the one you like and she is drawing her design for you to look at.'

'But the garden party is this Sunday,' Molly gasped. 'How will it be ready in time?'

'Oh, it will be ready for the first fitting tomorrow and ready to wear the day after that.'

Rachelle turned to Molly with a huge smile and angled the sketch pad for her to see the drawing. The sketch was that of a classic 1950's dress, with cap sleeves, a shawl collar, which came together in a V-shape, at the front, gathered under the bust, with a little bow at the point of the V and sculpted at the waist, with a full skirt that reached down to just below the knee. It was finished with a slim belt and a little pancake hat.

Molly gazed at it in amazement. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen.

'Oh, my goodness! It is beautiful!' she gasped. Rachelle smiled and nodded her agreement. Just at that moment, the assistant returned with a bundle of swatches, which Rachelle proceeded to hold up to Molly's shoulder, studying the effect with intense concentration. She eventually selected three and laid them out for Molly to look at. The first was a delicate, pale green, the second a soft, pastel pink and the third a subtle blend of grey and blue, with tiny white polka dots. The fabric itself was a light cotton crepe, which felt soft to the touch and flowed, delightfully, when moved from side to side.

'Do you like any of these colours, Molly?' Caro asked.

She pointed to the blue one. It reminded her of the colour of Sherlock's eyes. There was just one thing left to do. The assistant whisked Molly off to a changing room and took all her measurements, an appointment was made for her to return the next afternoon for a fitting and then she and Caro left the shop. Molly was in a bit of a daze.

'Are you alright, dear?' Caro enquired.

'Oh, Caro, what if it looks awful, after all this effort and expense?' she blurted out.

'Molly, my dear, it will look absolutely perfect! Trust Rachelle. She has designed clothes for royalty. She has never been wrong yet. And as for the expense, Sherlock told me specifically, yesterday, that you were to spend as much or as little as you wished. No limit. So no more excuses. You are having a new outfit, whether you like it or not!'

Molly had to smile. Caro had her number. She hated spending any time, effort or money on herself. So, to assuage her guilt, she spent the next hour choosing some lovely outfits for the two boys. Then they went upstairs to The Fifties restaurant, which seemed very appropriate, for lunch. Having finished the meal, Caro had one more surprise for Molly.

'I have booked us both into the spa at your hotel for a Pamper Afternoon,' Caro informed her.

'I don't know what to say. You've been so kind. How can I thank you enough?'

'Don't thank me. It was Sherlock's idea.'

Molly was quite dumbfounded now. She hadn't thought Sherlock even knew what a Pamper Afternoon was.

'He asked what sort of thing ladies like to do in their free time. He said you never do anything just for yourself and he wanted to give you a treat. I told him I'd take care of it. He doesn't know what I had in mind. So it will be a surprise for him, too.'

ooOoo


	10. Loose Ends Chapter 9

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nine**

It was not until they were ensconced in a treatment room, enjoying a body wrap, that Molly had the opportunity to put the question that she had been dying to ask all day.

'Caro, what was Sherlock's mother really like?'

The other lady took a deep breath and then replied, with another question.

'What do you already know about her?'

'Hardly anything. Sherlock rarely talks about his childhood but when he does, it's always something negative. I understand that his parents had very little to do with him but that Mycroft was the apple of their eye,' Molly replied, succinctly.

'Well, that is a pretty fair account of the situation and that could leave you to make some rather damning assumptions about the Holmes as parents and as people but, obviously, it doesn't really tell the whole story.'

'No, of course not. I've always assumed that there must be more to this than meets the eye. I do find it hard to understand, though, how a mother could reject her own child so completely. It's unfathomable to me,' Molly agreed.

'Well, let me start at the very beginning and tell you about the Violet Holmes that I knew,' Caro declared.

'When I met Violet, we were both thirteen and we'd just arrived at Roedean, a most prestigious girls' boarding school. She was so bright and bubbly, such a beauty, even at that young age. And she was so intelligent, too. We were there for three years, until we had took our O-levels – I think they call them GCSE's, now. Violet's results were the highest of our year. She got straight 'A's in all her subjects – English Language, English Lit, History, Geography, Maths, Chemistry, Biology and four languages – French, German, Spanish and Latin. She absolutely excelled at both science and languages.'

'I can see who Sherlock takes after, then. Those are his strongest areas. I think he speaks about ten languages and he picks up new ones really easily.'

'Yes, you are right. Mycroft is his father's son but Sherlock is his mother's child, which makes it all the more tragic that she never bonded with him. However, I digress. Despite her exemplary exam results, there was never any question of Violet staying at school to take A-levels and then go on to university. Her family had already decided her fate. Being a female, she was destined to become someone's wife and someone's mother. We both were. That's how things worked in our sort of families, in those days.

'At sixteen, we were both packed off to Finishing School, in Switzerland, to learn how to be ladies, in order to attract a husband and make a good marriage. We travelled there together and, I remember, Violet cried all the way. She actually cried virtually non-stop for the first six weeks of term but no one had any sympathy for her – except me, of course. I knew how much it hurt her, to be there. I didn't mind being there, to be honest. I wasn't academically bright and I had no illusions about my appearance. I was a 'sturdy girl', they used to say. I was quite chunky in build – much as I am now – and I was cheerful and very practical. But those characteristics don't necessarily attract good husband material, so going to Finishing School was a saving grace for me.

For Violet, it was like a death sentence. She had an active enquiring brain and a very low threshold for boredom.'

More parallels with Sherlock, Molly thought.

'But, after six weeks of utter misery, she seemed to accept her fate and just knuckled down and got on with it. She was so beautiful and elegant, she barely needed any lessons in deportment. We learned ballroom dancing and she was like a ballerina on the dance floor – so light and graceful. They taught us to cook and sew, to make charming conversation and to organise social events. Once she put her mind to it, she came top of the class in everything. Floristry was perhaps her favourite subject because she knew all the Latin names of the plants and flowers. It was the closest she could get to Science.'

'We both 'came out' when we were eighteen and it came as no surprise that she was the leading debutante of our year. She made the front page of all the society magazines – Tatler, Country Life, Horse and Hound. She even made the fashion magazines because she could wear anything and still look fabulous. It was at one of the debutante balls that she caught the eye of Randolph Holmes. Her parents were absolutely ecstatic. He was such a good catch. He came from a very good family, related to the British peerage on his mother's side, and a real rising star in the diplomatic service. They were engaged within the month and married three months after that.'

Molly was shocked to her core. She could not believe that something as important as choosing one's life partner could be done in such a cold and calculating way. It was like a stud farm, matching a brood mare with a stallion.

'I can see what you're thinking, Molly, but I must tell you that arranged marriages are still very common amongst the British nobility. I met my husband in much the same circumstances and we have been happily married for over forty years, now, so it can work, sometimes.'

'But not in Violet's case?'

'No, sadly not. To Randolph Holmes, she was a trophy wife, something to be shown off, something for other men to covet. She was just an object of desire to him, like an Armani suit or a Jaguar car. It was a loveless marriage.'

Not for the first time, Molly felt very sorry for Violet Holmes. She must have been a very unhappy woman. But it still didn't explain her rejection of Sherlock. After all, she had adored Mycroft.

Caro was speaking again.

'Mycroft was conceived very soon after they married. Violet was barely nineteen when she gave birth to him – still a child herself, really, but she actually rather enjoyed being pregnant. It was the happiest I'd seen her in years. But Randolph was a selfish and impatient man. He resented her complete immersion in her pregnancy and he was jealous of the attention she gave to the baby, even before he was born, so he had affairs. To be honest, he had always had affairs, when he was away from home, but he began to have affairs at home, too.

When Violet found out, she was so hurt. She had kept to her side of the deal. She had run his home, entertained his guests and borne him an heir and he couldn't even be faithful. So she made the decision to deny him his conjugal rights. She told him he could have as many affairs as he wished but she would never sleep with him again.'

She stopped talking and the big question hung in the air. Molly dared not voice it. It was too explosive an issue. The uncomfortable silence stretched on and on.

Eventually, Caro spoke again.

'I can't tell you the rest of the story, Molly. I don't think it's fair that I tell anyone but Sherlock himself. But I must ask you whether you think I should tell him the truth about the circumstances surrounding his birth. Do you think he would want to know the truth?'

Molly could not answer that question right away. It took a good deal of consideration, of soul searching and trying to put herself in Sherlock's place. But, at last, she came to a conclusion.

'I think Sherlock would prefer to know the truth, however uncomfortable that might be. He is obsessed with facts and truths. Truth is absolute and unchangeable. You only have to come to terms with it once. I think you should tell him – as soon as possible.'

Caro gave a firm nod.

'You know him better than anyone, possibly even better than Mycroft does, now. So, I will take your advice. I will tell him on Sunday – after the garden party is over, if you think that is soon enough.'

'After all these years, I think it can wait until after the garden party. If he is really upset by what you tell him, it would make it impossible for him to advocate on behalf of the Centre and that would upset him still more. So after is best,' Molly concluded.

'Just one thing, though, Caro. Can I ask, does Mycroft know the truth?'

'Oh, no, Molly, he has no idea. I am the only person alive who knows. I've kept Violet's secret for all these years. I haven't even told my husband. It's the only secret I've ever kept from him.'

The rest of the afternoon went by in a bit of a haze for Molly. She was so preoccupied with what Caro had told her. She felt such a deep sorrow for poor Violet, the brilliant scholar who was denied the opportunity to use her intellect, virtually sold into a loveless marriage of convenience and then treated like an object, a possession, by a selfish, arrogant man.

She really wanted to cry for the poor woman but for the fact that she seemed to have taken out her misery on her youngest child. There was more to this story, she knew. And it was high time the full story was heard by the person to whom it meant the most. She just hoped that this truth didn't destroy him completely.

ooOoo

Had it not been for this enormous weight she felt, on her shoulders, Molly would have been thrilled with her Pamper Afternoon. From Body Wrap and body scrub to Aromatherapy Massage; full facial, hair treatment and styling; manicure and pedicure; waxing and threading, she had been primped and pruned to within an inch of her life. When she looked in the mirror, at the end of it all, she barely recognised herself. She positively glowed.

'Oh, my dear, you look so lovely!' Caro exclaimed. Molly smiled, self-consciously. She had never, in her entire life, had so much attention paid to her by so many people, in such a short period of time. It felt odd but rather nice. She couldn't wait to see what Sherlock would say. He would notice the difference, of course. He noticed everything.

Caro left her at the hotel, late in the afternoon, with a promise to be back the next day, to take her for her dress fitting. She thanked her, waved goodbye and carried her shopping bags into the lift and up to their suite. She opened the door and stepped inside. The sitting room was empty, with a few of Freddie's toys scattered on the floor, but the big windows to the balcony were open and she could hear her youngest son chattering out there.

She put her bags on the round table and walked outside. Sherlock was sitting stretched out on the sun lounger, with Freddie sitting between his knees and William tucked under one arm. They were looking at something on Sherlock's tablet but when she appeared in front of them, she was greeted by excited squealing from Freddie and admiring looks from the other two.

'Come and see what I bought!' Molly squealed back, as she scooped Freddie up off the lounger and held out a hand to William, who scrambled out from under Sherlock's arm and rushed to take her hand.

'You, too, Daddy,' she added, as she disappeared back through the window.

Sherlock rolled off the lounger and followed after her, curious to see her purchases but, more to the point, fascinated by the aura that seemed to surround her. It reminded him of when she was pregnant. Her natural beauty was shining through. She had clearly had a pleasant time.

He sat on the sofa and watched her taking items of clothing out of the various bags and showing them to the boys. For Freddie, she had bought a pair of knee-length shorts in khaki, a green and white striped t-shirt and a green baseball cap; for William, a pair of blue denim knee-length shorts, a pale yellow polo shirt, and a matching denim baseball cap. She had also bought each of the boys a One-sie – a rabbit one for Freddie and a Snoopy one for William. They were very keen to try these on and, having done so, both ran round the sitting room, squealing, Freddie trying very hard to catch up with his big brother but never quite managing it.

Molly sat on the sofa, next to Sherlock, and put a small package into his hand. He looked at it – the size, the shape, the weight, the feel – and knew exactly what it was without opening it - a bottle of Attimo pour Homme by Salvador Ferragamo. He leaned over and kissed her.

'Thank you. I needed some more of that. And, by the way, may I say that you look absolutely lovely? Have you enjoyed your day?'

She smiled and nodded and curled into his side. She wasn't going to say anything at all about Caro's revelations. She didn't want to spoil the moment. Come Sunday, he would hear it all anyway, first hand.

ooOoo

**I'm going away for a day or two, meeting up with some very dear Sherlocky friends in London. See you all when I get back. xxx**


	11. Loose Ends Chapter 10

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Ten**

When Molly arrived at Rachelle's studio for her fitting, the next day – having left Sherlock and the boys enjoying the delights of the hotel swimming pool and a promise of a visit to an ice cream parlour on her return – she was surprised and slightly alarmed to find her dress made up in white muslin-type fabric, rather than the grey-blue polka dot material she had chosen. Caro quickly put her mind at rest by explaining that this was what people in the couture industry referred to as a 'toiles'. This was the mock-dress that was used to make the fine adjustments of fit to the client's exact body shape. This 'garment' would then be deconstructed and used to make the final pattern from which the actual garment fabric would be cut.

Molly was helped into the toiles by Rachelle's assistant and then asked to stand on a round raised platform whilst Rachelle herself made the careful nips and tucks to the piece so that it would fit Molly's contours exactly. Once she was certain that the fit was exact, the designer explained that she would make up the actual garment that night and bring it to the hotel for a final fitting the following day. Caro pointed out that this would be a formality as she was quite sure the dress would fit perfectly first try.

Returning to the Palace Hotel, in Caro's car, Molly was quiet and thoughtful. Eventually, Caro ventured to ask if there were anything troubling her.

'I am a bit concerned about how Sherlock might react to what you intend to tell him on Sunday. He's been through rather a lot in recent months. I don't know how much Mycroft has explained to you.'

'Mycroft has told me nothing more than that his brother has been ill and has undergone a fairly lengthy period of convalescence,' the other lady explained. 'He suggested that this trip to Rio was part of his 'treatment'. But, having met your husband, Molly, it is obvious to me that he is a rather intense young man who feels things very deeply but has a great deal of difficulty expressing or even rationalising his feelings.

However, I can also see that you and he have a very symbiotic relationship. He relies on you to be his social compass, to help him understand the emotional nuances of social situations. Therefore, I trust that – whatever emotions are stirred up by my revelations, and I don't doubt that they will be stirred up quite dramatically – he will come to you for help to deal with them.

For that reason, I've written down what I intend to discuss with him and I'll give you a copy on Sunday, for you to read, after I've spoken to him. I can't give it to you before – I hope you understand why – but at least you will know what it is he is dealing with, without him having to tell you himself – which might be difficult for him, under the circumstances.'

Molly was grateful for the older woman's consideration in this matter.

'There is just one problem, though. He does rather have a tendency to bolt when things get too much to handle. He's done that a couple of times and, on both occasions, it needed intervention from Mycroft, with all his power and influence, to track him down and bring him back. It worries me that, should he do that here, Mycroft won't be here to help.'

Caro gave Molly's arm a sympathetic pat.

'Don't you worry about that, my dear. If Sherlock goes AWOL, my husband can wield a considerable amount of clout in government circles here. We will be able to help you retrieve him. I'm really glad you told me about that, though. Forewarned is forearmed.'

ooOoo

On her return, Molly found her boys – well, two of them, at least – in a frenzy of excitement about the impending visit to the ice cream parlour. Freddie didn't really have any idea where they were going or what they would do there but his default position was 'frenzy of excitement' so he joined in, anyway. Having never even heard of such a thing as an ice cream parlour before, let alone been to one, William was curious to know exactly what to expect. Sherlock's description - it's a shop that sells ice cream - had been less than edifying. Molly was more informative.

'It's like a coffee shop but, instead of selling lots of different kinds of coffee, it sells different kinds of ice cream.'

William nodded, in an appreciative way. He could relate to that, having been to any number of coffee shops with Sherlock, who was something of a coffee connoisseur, though William himself had never tried that particular beverage. He preferred milk shakes.

Sherlock just muttered something about sugar highs and bouncing off the walls but Molly told him not to be such a grumpy old man. She knew his main concern was the prospect of having to walk into a pastel coloured palace, where the background soundtrack was Disney classics.

'I'll let you wear your sun glasses and earplugs, OK?' Molly conceded.

As it turned out, the trip was a huge success. Freddie finished up wearing most of his ice cream sundae but that was pretty much par for the course, when it came to food. William opted for a banana split and chose an eclectic mix of Rum'n'Raisin, Rocky Road and Lemon Sorbet for his ice cream fillers. Molly settled for a scoop of Mint Chocolate Chip with a chocolate flake and Sherlock, who was so adamant, all the way there, that he would just take a black coffee, was so intrigued by the amount of choice on offer that he ended up having a sample spoonful of every flavour on the menu – including the Marmalade on Toast special.

Molly could barely eat hers, for laughing at his 'experimental protocol'. Freddie got the joke – well, he laughed along at least – but William was at a loss to know why Mummy found Daddy so funny. Sherlock simply ignored Molly's mirth and advised William to do the same, since paying her attention only encouraged her bad behaviour.

In the end, everyone really enjoyed the excursion and Sherlock accepted that pastel palaces and Disney hits were a fair price to pay for such a gustatory adventure.

'Which one was your favourite, Daddy?' William wanted to know. After giving the question a great deal of consideration, Sherlock concluded there was insufficient data and he would need to conduct further tests.

'Would you care to be my lab assistant?' he asked and William said he would.

'I think we need to conduct some blindfold testing, so as avoid being influenced by any preconceptions inspired by the appearance of the sample,' Sherlock stated.

'What about the smell, though, Daddy? We need to eliminate that variable, too,' William pointed out.

'How right you are. Make a note, Assistant William, to bring along a swimming nose clip.'

William mimed writing a note on a clip board.

'And the names, Daddy, they could influence our choices, couldn't they?'

'In deed, they could. We need to apply random labelling, in order to guarantee sample anonymity. Note that, too.'

Assistant William added that to his clip board memo.

Walking back to the hotel, along the beach front, pushing a very tired and sticky Freddie in his buggy and listening to this role-play exchange between father and son, Molly reflected on the storm brewing on the horizon and wondered whether she had made the right decision, advising Caro to reveal her secret. She could only hope that it would not have disastrous consequences.

ooOoo

Molly was on tenterhooks the next day, waiting for her dress to arrive. She insisted that Sherlock take the boys to the beach because she didn't want him to see her in the outfit before the day of the Garden Party. She wanted him to see the finished article, not the work in progress. Caro was the first to turn up and she was as excited as Molly.

'I called in at the spa, Molly,' she announced, 'and I've booked you an appointment on Sunday morning, to have your hair and make-up done by their top stylist and beautician.'

Molly was, once again, lost for words. But Caro waved a dismissive hand.

'Every other woman at the party will have spent hours at a salon, beforehand, being powdered and painted, so why shouldn't you?'

'I wouldn't want to look like a dog's dinner, though, Caro,' Molly blurted out, then put her hand to her mouth, fearful that she sounded unappreciative.

'My dear Molly,' Caro replied, with a smile and a hug, 'any beautician worth their salt will take one look at your peaches and cream complexion and will recognise immediately that less is more. They will merely enhance your beauty, not try to compete with it.'

Molly was embarrassed by the complement but reassured by her friend's confidence so accepted the idea, graciously.

Rachelle and her assistant, Rosa, arrived with the dress in a protective cover but when they took it out, Molly gasped. It was lovelier than even the sketch had implied. The waist looked so tiny and the skirt so full, with layers and layers of netting and a silk lining, underneath, she hardly dared to put it on but Rosa marshalled her into the bedroom and practically stripped off her outer clothing herself, then helped her on with the new outfit.

Along with the dress, there was a little cream coloured pancake hat fitted to a comb, which would secure it to her hair, a pair of summer gloves, to match the hat and a pair of nude court shoes with a five centimetre heel. With Molly dressed in the whole outfit, she was led back into the sitting room by the smiling assistant, to a greeting of approving exclamations from both Caro and Rachelle.

'It fits perfectly, Molly dear, and you look absolutely gorgeous!' Caro enthused. 'What do you think?'

Molly had stood and stared at herself, in disbelief, in the bedroom mirror.

'It's beyond anything I could have imagined, Caro. It feels like it's my wedding day!'

The words were out before she even thought about what she was saying and she felt instantly guilty. Her mouth clamped shut and she blushed, bright red.

'No need to be embarrassed, Molly, we're all girls together here,' Caro interjected, whilst Rachelle and Rosa looked confused, having not understood the words Molly had uttered and then bitten back.

The incident was brushed aside and then, having made sure that the dress was absolutely the best fit it could be, Rachelle and Rosa helped her to take it off and then left, taking their creation with them. Caro explained that they would bring it back the next day and help her to dress, after she had had her hair and makeup done. This made Molly feel even more like a bride and the pang of guilt struck again.

As she and Caro sat sipping tea, the older lady asked,

'Does Sherlock know how you feel about getting married?'

'Oh, is it that obvious?' Molly wailed.

'Only to another woman, perhaps. Do I take it that he doesn't?

'I don't know, we've never really discussed the matter but, whenever it comes up, he is so negative on the subject, I just know he hates the whole concept of marriage. And, in a way, I do see his point. In his eyes, he has made a commitment to me and me to him and we've had two children together. That's more binding than a marriage licence and I agree. But, I suppose every girl dreams of her wedding day, no matter how superfluous to requirements it might be.'

'Don't you think that if he knew how much it meant to you, he might change his opinion?' Caro suggested.

'Perhaps, but he has enough to contend with at the moment. I don't want to make matters any worse,' Molly replied.

'You know, Molly, I think he loves you very much and would want to do whatever made you happy,' Caro replied.

Molly shook her head but did not elaborate further. She didn't know why Sherlock was so dead set against marriage but she imagined it had to do with his parents' relationship so, once he knew what Caro had to tell him, she figured he would be even more averse to the concept. So she would keep her own counsel on the subject. What he did not know could not hurt him, she concluded, and changed the subject.

ooOoo


	12. Loose Ends Chapter 11

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eleven**

The day of the Garden Party dawned at last and Molly was as nervous as a bride – and for so many reasons. She awoke early and slipped out of bed, to avoid disturbing Sherlock, and went into the sitting room to switch on the kettle in the corner, to make a mug of coffee. She used the boys' bathroom and, looking at her image in the mirror could only see dark shadows under her eyes and the beginning of wrinkles around the corners of her mouth. She hoped this beautician had a good supply of concealer.

She took her mug of coffee out to the balcony and stood, leaning on the balustrade, lost in the view and enjoying the calming effect of the ocean sounds. She must have stood there for nearly an hour, sipping her cooling coffee and hoping that the day would end as peacefully as it had begun.

Hearing the boys' bedroom door open, she moved back inside and greeted her sleepy sons as they emerged, rubbing their eyes and thinking about breakfast. Freddie was still in night nappies, so she took him into the bathroom and removed his, while William used the toilet. Freddie was fascinated by watching his brother take a 'big boy' pee. When Freddie used the toilet, he still sat on the seat but Molly could see that it wouldn't be long before he was copying William's more mature style of urination. Freddie loved to imitate his big brother.

Toilet duties completed and hands washed, Molly and her boys returned to the sitting room and she rang room service to order breakfast. She wasn't sure if she would be able to eat, she was feeling so nervous, but she knew she must boost her blood sugar or she would never last the day. Her hair and makeup appointment was booked for ten thirty so she had plenty of time to have breakfast, take a shower and get the boys sorted before then. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, to calm the fluttering butterflies in her gut.

ooOoo

Caro sat in her study, at her private house in the suburbs, and re-read, for the umpteenth time, the account she had written of what Violet had confided in her all those years ago. Looking back, the memories were as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday. She recalled the frantic phone call, in the middle of the night, the incoherent voice on the other end of the line – her best friend, who needed her so badly right then but was so many thousands of miles away. Caro had told her husband she needed to return to the UK, urgently. He was such a kind, considerate man. He had arranged everything and she was on a plane within a few hours, hastening to her friend's side.

On arrival at the Holmes residence, Caro was shown to Violet's room and was deeply shocked by the state in which she found her. Violet was only twenty five, and a celebrated beauty, but the woman that Caro found curled in her bed was a mere shadow of her former self. She was painfully thin, with hollow cheeks and deep blue shadows under her eyes. The hand with which she reached out was trembling and claw-like. When Caro gathered her into a hug, she felt so light and fragile - a mere bag of bones.

The next few months had been intensely emotional. Violet see-sawed between the heights of near-manic euphoria and the depths of the darkest depression. Caro feared for her friend's sanity, whichever way the situation resolved itself. And then, the day came….

Caro folded the closely typed document and pushed it into an envelope, writing Molly's name on the front. She sealed it and propped it up on her desk. She then picked up a larger envelope, which was quite thick and heavy. These were things Violet had entrusted to her – not with any intension that she might one day give them to her youngest son – more because she didn't want anyone else to find them and, perhaps, show them to the world. No one had any right or need to see these documents – except for the man whose name was written on the outside, Sherlock Holmes.

ooOoo

Sherlock had shooed Molly out of the suite at ten twenty-five, assuring her that he was perfectly capable of entertaining the boys and keeping them clean and that he would make sure they were all dressed in their Sunday best by the time she returned, like Cinderella, ready to go to the ball. Rachelle and Rosa were meeting her in the spa, where the style make-over was to take place.

True to his word, Sherlock kept the boys occupied with an indoor treasure hunt – the treasure in question being his pocket magnifying glass, which he hid and then gave verbal clues to help William find it. Freddie alternated between the hunting team and the hiding team – although, in the latter role, he did have a tendency to give the game away by pointing to the secret location and yelling 'Dere!'

At twelve noon, Sherlock took the boys into the master bedroom to get them and himself dressed in their 'party clothes' and they emerged, just in time for Molly's return.

When Molly walked into the sitting room, with a rather apprehensive smile, Sherlock almost gasped. William was less circumspect.

'Mummy!' he exclaimed, 'You look lovely!' and she certainly did.

Caro had been right about the beautician. She had taken one look at Molly's flawless complection and, having cleansed, exfoliated and toned, she just applied a light dusting of powder, with a little concealer under the eyes. She then recreated a classic 1950's look with blends of gold, bronze and and neutral eye shadow and dark brown eyeliner and mascara, which accentuated Molly's deep chocolate eye colour. She then applied a peach blusher and a similar shade of lip colour.

The hair stylist, in keeping with the 50's theme, styled her hair in a loose French plait, with two little tendrils left to frame her face. The pancake hat was then fixed in place and she was handed over to Rachelle and Rosa, who completed the look by helping her into her dress, gloves and shoes. They had also brought along a vintage clutch bag in beige leather which matched the shoes perfectly.

'You will need somewhere to keep you handkerchief, for all those tears of happiness you will cry when your husband tells you how beautiful you are,' Rachelle explained, through the hair stylist, who acted as interpreter.

In fact, she almost cried when she saw herself in the long mirror for the first time. She could hardly believe it was her! Standing in the sitting room, she looked at the expression on Sherlock's face and felt a warm glow spread from her heart. He crossed the room in two strides and, taking her gloved hand in his, brought it to his lips and dropped a gently kiss on her knuckles, never taking his eyes from her face.

'You look absolutely stunning,' he whispered.

ooOoo

The warm glow stayed in place all the way to Caro's home, in the chauffeur-driven car, and they were greeted, on arrival, by Caro and her husband, Henriques. He was everything Molly had imagined – tall, grey-haired, moustachioed and looking very distinguished. He greeted Molly by kissing her hand and declaring himself extremely honoured to meet her. Caro, on the other hand, almost squealing with delight,

'Molly, my dear girl, you look delightful, like a young Audrey Hepburn! What did Sherlock say?' she whispered, conspiratorially.

'Not much,' Molly whispered back, 'I think he was a bit stunned.'

'And well he might be. I'm sure that he already knew you were the most beautiful woman in the world but now every other man will know this, too. He will need to keep a close eye on you, to make sure no one tries to steal you away.'

Molly giggled and moved on with the children, leaving Sherlock still chatting, animatedly, with Henriques, in Portuguese. There were already quite a few guests standing around in couples and small groups, in the large open space mostly laid to lawn but with several tall trees strategically placed, to provide pleasant shade from the tropical sun. In the far corner was a rustic Jungle Gym climbing frame and there were already a few children playing on and around it. William was eyeing it with interest.

'Do you want to go and play, William?' Molly asked. He nodded enthusiastically so she waved him away and he ran off in that direction, leaving her just with Freddie. He was gazing around at this new environment and looked as though he had exploration on his mind, so she plonked him down on his feet and he toddled off, with her following behind.

He made a bee line for a group of ladies, standing together in the shade of a broad Copaifera tree. When Molly looked at these women, she was instantly reminded of Irene Adler. They were tall and elegant, beautifully coutured and coiffured and made up like manikins. Their movements were graceful and haughty and Molly felt a little intimidated by them but Freddie had no such qualms of confidence. He waddled straight up to them and began a conversation with the first one who looked at him.

Catching up with him, Molly stood by, smiling inanely and trying not to fidget with her hands. A waitress came by with a tray of canapés and offered it to her. She gratefully accepted and, removing one of her gloves, helped herself to a tasty looking item – a date wrapped in something that looked like streaky bacon. She was just about to bite into it when one of the women spoke to her.

'Excuse me, dear, those are for guests. There is a table over there for you.'

Molly was thrown into a panic of confusion. She had obviously committed some terrible social faux pas. She looked in the direction in which the woman was pointing and saw, over by the Jungle Gym, a table spread with snacks and jugs of fruit juice. She apologised profusely and, taking Freddie's hand, hurried off in that direction. Behind her, she heard the woman say to one of her companions,

'Who's she with?'

'Sherlock Holmes, the founder of the Rocky Foundation,' came the reply.

'Mr Holmes really should have instructed her more thoroughly, poor girl.'

'_Lucky_ girl,' the other woman replied, 'travelling the world with that gorgeous man. She landed on her feet, there, didn't she?'

'Oh, yes, my dear, but an English nanny is like gold dust. I would love to have one myself. I wonder if she would be interested in a change of position.'

'I wonder where his wife is. He must have one, presumably, since he has children.' Their voices faded as Molly moved out of range.

Se had to giggle to herself. They thought she was the boys' nanny! As she approached the buffet table, she saw that nearly all the adults standing near it were young local girls, wearing some kind of nanny uniform. Freddie toddled off to say hello to some of the other little children, playing nearby. Molly smiled, shyly at the 'other' nannies but was dying of embarrassment, inside. Her mouth was dry but she didn't feel she could help herself to a drink from the buffet, since she was not actually staff, but neither did she feel able to take a glass from one of the waiters and waitresses who were circulating with trays of champagne, fruit juice and water.

She stood there, alone, in the shade of the trees, for several minutes, and then saw Sherlock striding across the lawn toward her. She wrung her hands and fidgeted, wondering what he was going to say.

'Molly, don't desert me! I need you to keep me from insulting the wrong person. Remember, we discussed this. If I look like I'm about to say something a bit not good, you are supposed to poke me in the back? Why are you standing over here on your own, anyway?'

Molly smiled awkwardly and tried to think of a good excuse but her imagination failed her. However, he was already scrutinizing her features, intently.

'What? Has someone said something nasty? Has someone upset you?'

'No,' she insisted, 'it was just a mistake.'

'What was a mistake?'

'Those women over there,' she pointed at the ladies under the Copaifera tree. 'They thought I was your nanny. They told me to come over here, with the other nannies. But they weren't being nasty, they just made an assumption. Let's face it, I don't look like them, do I? I can understand why they thought that.'

Sherlock's face had darkened and his lips become pursed and thin. He looked at her, then across at the group of ladies then he took Molly by the hand and began to march across the lawn in their direction.

'Sherlock, don't be angry with them. They didn't mean to be rude and I don't want you to upset them. Sherlock, I am poking you in the back, RIGHT NOW!' She dug in her heels and forced him to stop and look at her.

'Please, Sherlock, don't make a scene,' she pleaded. He breathed in, sharply, and then out, slowly, and smiled his most charming smile. Turning again, he continued to lead her back to the group, who were now all looking in their direction, curious to know why Mr Holmes was dragging his nanny over toward them.

'Good afternoon, ladies,' he purred, in his best Queen's English, bowing slightly from the hip. 'To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?'

The ladies smiled and giggled a little but introduced themselves and Sherlock shook hands with them, graciously. Then he intoned,

'I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is my wife, Miss Molly Hooper,' indicating Molly with his free hand, whilst she smiled shyly and mouthed the word 'hello'.

'Your wife, Mr Holmes?' repeated the first lady.

'In deed, madam,' he confirmed, 'not, in fact, my children's nanny but their mother.'

'But she has no wedding ring! How were we to know she was you wife?' the woman squawked, defensively.

Sherlock's face darkened again.

'Well, madam, you could have asked. Miss Hooper and I have made a personal commitment to one another. We have not felt the need to subject ourselves to the archaic ritual of a formal matrimonial ceremony but, having been together for in excess of two years, we are under British common law entitled to term ourselves husband and wife.' He paused for a fraction of a second.

'Are you married, madam?' he enquired, with what Molly recognised as malice aforethought.

'I am, sir, to Mr Donahue, over there!' the indignant woman declared, archly. Sherlock looked toward the man she indicated, who was chatting to a third man, oblivious to the hole his wife was inadvertently digging for them both. He had a bulging paunch, a bulbous nose and a swathe of broken blood vessels across his cheeks.

'Sherlock….' Molly warned, under breath.

'Well, madam, if you wish to remain in that happy state, can I suggest you lock your husband's liquor cabinet and wean him off the Havana cigars – oh, and cut down on his red meat consumption - before he smokes, drinks and eats himself into a myocardial infarction and you into widowhood.'

The woman stared at him, open-mouthed, for a full ten seconds then huffed and stalked off, in the direction of her poor, unsuspecting husband. Molly breathed a sigh of relief, smiled demurely at the other ladies and dragged Sherlock away.

'See, I can be tactful, with you on hand, to keep me in check,' he gloated.

'Tactful?' Molly exclaimed. 'That was not very tactful, Sherlock.'

'Believe me, Molly, it was the epitome of tact. I kept quiet about the affair he's having with his young secretary – his young _male_ secretary,' he grinned. Molly snorted and they both giggled, as Sherlock helped himself to two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to her.

'To the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful woman in the world, Molly Hooper, and the luckiest man, too,' he declared and raised his glass to her. She blinked rapidly, having her hands too full to reach into her vintage clutch bag for a tissue.

ooOoo


	13. Loose Ends Chapter 12

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twelve**

The rest of the afternoon passed fairly uneventfully, with Sherlock managing to maintain his most charming persona – with frequent breaks to relieve his stress by playing with William or Freddie or both – and Molly was extremely impressed with his acting ability. He did complain to her at one point that his face was aching from all the smiling but she simply reminded him that he was raising money for the Centre so a bit of face ache was a fair price to pay.

As the party drew to a close and the guests departed, Molly's thoughts returned to the meeting between Sherlock and Caro which was to follow, immediately after. When Sherlock mentioned to her that Caro wished to speak with him, when the guests had all gone, she felt a pang of guilt. He was going into this meeting in a state of complete ignorance. She couldn't allow that to happen.

As the final guests drove away, Molly drew him to one side.

'Sherlock, your meeting with Caro, it isn't about Centre business.'

He looked at her, with a wrinkled frown between his eyes.

'It isn't?'

'No,' she replied. 'She has some information she wishes to share with you, about your mother.'

Sherlock's face hardened and his eyes darkened.

'Do you know what this information is? Has she told you, already?'

Molly shook her head.

'No. She told me your mother had given her some information and she thought you deserved to know what it was, because it concerns the circumstances of your birth. She said she could not tell anyone but you. She asked me if I thought you would want to hear it. I said I thought you would.'

His face froze, as he processed this information. What could this possibly refer to? It sounded ominous.

'How long have you known about this?' he asked, stiffly.

'Since Thursday. I asked her what your mother was really like, when we were at the spa. She told me about how she and your mum met and how your parents met. But then she said she couldn't tell me any more until she had spoken to you.'

'And you didn't think to mention this before?' he asked, sharply, accusingly.

'Yes, I did think about it but I thought it might upset you – which it clearly has – and it might distract you, compromise your efforts to raise money for the centre, which I thought would upset you still more. So, I made an informed decision and didn't tell you – until now. I didn't want you to go into the meeting unaware of what was in store for you.'

Molly delivered this little speech all in a rush. She believed she had made the right decision but she still felt she had betrayed him.

'I'm sorry if you feel I've betrayed you,' she added. 'I thought it was for the best.'

Sherlock looked away, his eyes flickering from side to side, as he considered the implications of this entirely unexpected turn of events. Molly chewed her bottom lip and fiddled with her gloves, hoping he would see that she had acted in his best interests. Eventually, he took a sharp intake of breath and squeezed his eyes shut but then turned back to her.

'You are quite right, of course. You did the right thing.' He was still tense but she knew this was due to apprehension about Caro's possible revelations. She reached out and took his hand. He didn't resist. She took that as a good sign and slipped her free arm around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. His arm wrapped around her and his hand stroked her arm. After a moment or two, he rested his chin on the top of her head.

'I should go and face my fate,' he mused, melodramatically.

She looked up at him and he was wearing a laconic smile.

'I'll be here when you're done,' she assured him, glancing across at Freddie, who was napping under a nearby tree. William was sitting, cross-legged, on the platform at the top of the Jungle Gym, alone, now that all the other guests' children had left. He seemed perfectly happy, thinking his thoughts. Sherlock dropped a kiss onto her upturned face then released his hold on her and walked away, toward the house. Molly sat down on the grass, next to Freddie's sleeping form, where she could also keep an eye on William, and prayed that this would all turn out all right.

ooOoo

At the French windows, which gave access to an elegant drawing room, Sherlock was met by a smartly dressed factotum, who was obviously expecting him and showed him to Caro's office, knocking and opening the door to admit him, then closing it behind him, from the outside.

Caro was already sitting at her desk but she looked up and smiled, indicating with a hand gesture that Sherlock should take a seat on the Regency sofa. She picked up a large envelope and carried it across to the arm chair, positioned at an angle to the sofa where he sat. Placing the envelope on a side table, she sat down and looked at him, directly .

'I can see Molly has said something about why I wished to speak to you,' she observed.

He nodded, once.

A soft knock on the door announced the arrival of a tea tray. Caro served them both then sat back, collecting herself before beginning her exposition. Up to this point, he had said nothing but now he spoke.

'In all the years since my mother died, why have you waited until now, to tell me this…story of hers?' His tone was acid.

'Because, having met you and your family and gotten to know you, I can see how your childhood experiences have affected your adult self. I wanted to try to put that right.' She was direct and honest and to the point. He was grateful for that.

'And you think that what you have to tell me will achieve that miracle, do you?'

'I hope it will help, at least.'

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin with his thumb, as he tended to do when nervous, she had observed. This was the only outward and visible sign of his internal conflict. She could see that part of him was anxious to hear what she had to say but another part was fearful of what this might entail. She wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, and reassure him but, on the one hand, she knew that reassurance was not hers to give and, on the other hand, she did not think he would welcome the gesture. She decided that honesty was the best policy - and launched into her story.

She began by reiterating what she had already told Molly. At the point where Violet told Randolph that she would never sleep with him again, she paused, to give him time to consider the story so far. He continued to rub his chin for a moment or two then plaited his fingers together, resting one elbow on the sofa arm and giving her his full attention once more.

'Your mother was true to her word. She moved into a separate bedroom and, although she carried out all the duties expected of a diplomat's wife, she abstained from any sort of intimate contact with your father. He accepted her decision. She had already given him an heir, so he was not in the least perturbed by her estrangement from him. He sought gratification elsewhere though that was nothing new.

But then your mother met someone else.'

Sherlock's eyes showed momentary surprise but then he blinked and gave an infinitesimal nod. Caro went on.

'Your brother was learning to play piano at school but his progress was slow and your mother felt he would benefit from some home tuition during the school holidays. She engaged a piano teacher. He was a personable young man, an artist, a musician and a very gentle soul. He was the complete antithesis of Randolph. And your mother, remember, was still a very young woman – only twenty four – and had been trapped in a loveless marriage for nearly six years.

Unfortunately, she fell in love.'

Sherlock's eyes began to flicker again, rapidly, as he processed all the possible repercussions an affair could have on a woman in his mother's circumstances. None of them were desirable.

'Your father was away a lot, out of the country or in London, so there was ample opportunity for an affair to blossom and so it did. Your mother was so happy. For the first time in years she had something good in her life – other than your brother, of course. I think we both know she absolutely dotted on him. Unfortunately, in the best run of houses, walls have ears and tongues will wag and your mother was not quite so discreet as she might have been. Needless to say, your father eventually got wind of the affair.

Your mother and her lover became aware that they were the subject of local gossip so they began to meet outside the house, thinking this would be safer. Unfortunately, your father had access to certain resources and he had them followed and photographed – taking walks in the county side, clandestine assignations in seaside towns, weekends away when she claimed to be visiting with friends. All her friends, who knew about your mother's circumstances, were more than happy to cover for her. We all thought your father was a beast. But it was all to no avail because he already knew what was going on.

Eventually, he confronted her with the evidence – photographs, dates, hotel receipts, witness depositions, the whole nine yards. He told her that he had been willing to forego his conjugal rights whilst she had remained chaste but that he would not be cuckolded by another man – especially not a lowly music teacher and most particularly not a foreigner.

In short, your father was both possessive and jealous.'

Sherlock's facial expression was inscrutable. Caro could not read him at all, had no idea how he was taking these revelations about his own family. She could only imagine what wide speculations were going on behind those impassive eyes. She continued her tale.

'Randolph gave Violet an ultimatum – end the affair or there would be dire consequences. Your mother had lived under his thumb for six years, uncomplaining, accepting her fate but now she saw an opportunity for real happiness and she was not prepared to give it up without a fight. She reminded him of his own indiscretions, over the years, too many to count, let alone to mention. She told him she was not prepared to live like a nun any longer, while he went about sewing his wild oats all over the world. She told him to do his worst.

And he did.'

Caro stopped. She felt suddenly overcome with emotion, exactly as she had felt when she heard this story for the first time, in a frantic transatlantic phone call, in the middle of the night, all those years ago. She put her hand to her mouth and breathed in, sharply. Sherlock just sat still, wearing a bland expression, waiting for her to regain control. She took a few sips of her rapidly cooling tea and then went on.

'Randolph assaulted her. He forced himself upon her. She tried to fight back but your father was a strong man and he was furious that she had dared to defy him. He took her by force and he left her bruised and battered and barely conscious. She was discovered, sometime later, by one of the maids who raised the alarm. The doctor was sent for – the family doctor – who, as you can probably guess, brushed it under the carpet, hushed it up for the sake of the family name.

Your mother was admitted to a private clinic and nursed back to health. She was there for over a month and when she eventually returned home and tried to contact her lover, she discovered that your father had had him deported.

By this time, you mother had discovered that she was pregnant, with you.'

For the first time since she began her story, Caro saw a reaction – a slight involuntary twitch in his right cheek. She waited to see if he would say anything, ask anything but he continued to sit, with his hands folded in front of him, elbow on the sofa arm, waiting for her to go on. So she did.

'Your mother then called me, here, in Brazil. She was beside herself. Randolph had gone away again, whilst she was in the clinic. She was alone in that huge house with just the servants for company. She was pregnant and she had no idea who the father was. She needed me so I went to her.

When I saw her for the first time, I could not believe my eyes. She was only twenty six, at that time, but she looked like an old woman or someone terminally ill. She was thin and gaunt, wasting away. I stayed with her all the way through her pregnancy – your gestation - cared for her, comforted her, and persuaded her to eat and to get out of bed and get out and about, in the outside world.

She was, emotionally, very unstable. Part of the time, she was deliriously happy, convinced that you were her lover's child and determined to track him down and make a home for him and you. She knew your father would not tolerate another man's child in his home. But that meant leaving Mycroft behind and that tore her apart. How could she desert one child for the sake of another? However, at other times, she despaired that you would be Randolph's child and she raved about taking steps to abort you, even though the pregnancy was already well beyond the legal date for an abortion to take place. At times like that, I dared not leave her side for fear of what she might do.

And then the day came when you were born – 6th January 1976.'

Sherlock shifted in his seat and she saw that his hands were trembling but he quickly re-plaited his fingers and settled back into immobility on the sofa.

'You were a difficult birth. She was in labour for nearly two days. By the time you arrived, she was utterly exhausted and absolutely desperate that you should not be a Holmes. But the moment she looked at you, she knew you were Randolph's child. You see, your mother's lover was an Asian man, who had been forced to leave his native country, Uganda, by that evil dictator, Idi Amin. With your pale skin and blue eyes, there was no question as to who had sired you.'

Caro had come this far and she knew she could not leave it there but this next part would be the hardest to say and even harder to hear.

'She took one look at you and screamed. She told the nurse to take you away, to get you out of her sight. She couldn't bear to see you. She didn't want to hold you. You were taken straight to the Nursery and given in to the care of the nanny.

You see, Sherlock, every time she looked at you, it reminded her of the circumstances of your conception. He raped and beat her. He very nearly killed her. It was nothing to do with you, Sherlock. You were an innocent victim in all this. But you were the one who bore the consequences.

She resigned herself to staying in the marriage and continuing to fulfil her wifely duties, really because of Mycroft, but she remained celibate for the rest of her life. She took no more lovers – she was still in love with Aadi. She loved him until the day she died. He was a highly accomplished musician – a concert pianist – in his own land, who had taken up teaching piano from financial necessity, when he arrived in England. But, most of all, he was a sweet, gentle, thoughtful man and he loved her for who she was, not for what she could do for him.'

At this point, Caro reached for the large envelope on the side table. She held it to her breast for a moment, as she said,

'After your mother died, your family solicitor sent me a bundle of papers that Violet had left to me, in her will. Those papers are in this envelope. I would like you should have them. I think they belong to you.'

She held out the envelope and, after a long pause, he reached out a none too steady hand and took it from her grasp. He stared at the package, not speaking, not moving. Caro stood up, walked to her desk and picked up the smaller envelope with Molly's name on then walked back to him.

'I'm going to leave you now, Sherlock. You can stay in here for as long as you need. I'm going to go and talk to Molly.' She put a hand on his shoulder but he gave no response at all, just continued to stare at the envelope in his hand, his face a pale, blank, granite slate. Caro turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

ooOoo


	14. Loose Ends Chapter 13

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Sherlock sat and stared at the large bulky envelope in his hand. He felt numb and physically sick, both at the same time, and there was a huge black hollow in his chest that was making it hard to breath but his brain was buzzing like a band saw, firing off in all regions at once, making coherent thought impossible.

A familiar voice broke through all the turmoil, in the deep recesses of his mind and reminded him to breathe slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, and to consciously relax his body, beginning at his feet and working up, gradually, to his head. He listened to the voice, Molly's voice, and did as he was told. He had no real sense of time passing but, eventually, he succeeded in calming all the chaos but was still left with the nausea and numbness.

The fat package felt like a hot coal, burning his fingers. He wanted to open it and find out what it contained but the prospect of that was terrifying. His brain was now replaying memories from his childhood, instance after instance of rebuffs and rebukes and always with the same sense of utter confusion, wondering what had he done, how had he offended, how could he make good?

Inside his adult body, he was a child again, filled with overwhelming hurt and sadness, desperate for love and affection but resigned to living without it. He caught a fleeting image of his mother's face and saw the loathing in her eyes, heard the vitriol in her voice and felt the sharp stab of rejection as she turned her face away, dismissing him.

The chaos was beginning to push against the barriers again. He needed order, he needed data, he needed to fill in the gaps and see the whole picture. He tore open the envelope and tipped out its contents, into his hand. There was a sheaf of black and white photographs and an old envelope containing several sheets of folded paper. He put aside the old envelope, pushing it down the side of the sofa, next to his thigh, and turned his attention to the photos.

They showed a man and a woman in various locations. They were clearly candid pictures, taken without the knowledge of the subjects. That would not have been difficult because it was clear for all to see that the couple in the photos had eyes only for each other. The subjects were his mother and her lover, Aadi.

He scrutinized each one, in turn, before shuffling them to the back of the pack. She looked so young, so fresh-faced, so beautiful but the things she looked the most were happy and in love. He had never seen this side of his mother, in all the twenty years he knew her, before her untimely death. He was reminded, perversely, of Molly. Violet had that open, gentle, caring softness in her eyes and about her mouth. In this shot, her lips were curved up at the corners, there was a warm light in her face; in another shot, she was laughing, her head thrown back, her teeth exposed in all their perfection, her eyes shining with mirth.

Image after image, scene after scene, their love affair was recorded, catalogued, revealed, exposed. Walking on a deserted beach, fingers linked, heads inclined together - almost touching but not quite; leaning against a tree, in a leafy woodland, clasped in each other's arms, lost in a passionate kiss; seen through a bedroom window, he lounging on the bed, she standing at the window, arms raised, just about to close the curtains. The man had that aura about him of a person deeply in love. He looked at her as though she were the only other living thing in the world and he would gladly lay down his life for her. Perhaps he had done just that.

Sherlock pushed the pictures back into the envelope and pulled the smaller package out from the side of the sofa. He turned it in his hands, over and over, psyching himself up to take the plunge and extract the sheets of folded paper, wondering what new revelation he would find, inside, with which to torture his soul. With a metaphorical squaring of his shoulders, he snatched the papers out of their hiding place and unfolded them, smoothing the sheets out against his thigh before beginning to read the cursive script, written in a neat, firm hand.

ooOoo

From where she sat, on the grass under the tree with Freddie still snoozing beside her, Molly looked across toward the house and saw Caro walking over the lawn toward her. Something in the body language of her friend told her the meeting had not been easy. Molly scrambled to her feet and, as Caro approached, reached out a comforting hand toward the other woman.

The older lady was visibly upset, close to tears, clutching an A4 envelope which she thrust toward Molly and blurted out,

'Please read this, Molly. I don't think I can speak at the moment.'

'Where is he, Caro? Is he alright? How did he take it?' Molly had to know.

'I don't know, Molly, I just don't know. He gives nothing away. I left him alone with some papers his mother left to me. I do so hope I haven't done more harm than good.' With that, her face crumpled and she began to sob. Molly drew her into a gentle hug and held her until the tears subsided then the two women sat down on the grass and Caro urged Molly, once again, to read the contents of the envelope. She tore it open, extracted the folded papers and, opening them out, began to read.

ooOoo

Sherlock read:

_Dearest Caro_

_You are my oldest and, in fact, my only true friend. You have been constant and loyal from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Without your unwavering support, I do not know where I would be. I doubt very much I would even be alive. How foolish of me! The fact that you are reading this means that I am NOT alive. What a surreal moment this is!_

_I have made a terrible mess of my life, not without the willing assistance of many who really should have known better – my parents, to name but two. But this is not the time or the place to point the finger of blame. This is my confession, my plea for absolution. The rest can beg forgiveness for themselves. They know what they have done._

_I have many regrets – far too many to list – but I will take those with me, to where ever I have gone. I do so hate whiney people. Grow a backbone, I say to them! Where is the famous British stiff upper lip? Mine has been firmly in place, ever since I nailed it on, in that God-awful finishing school in Switzerland. I sometimes think I should have topped myself then and there and saved everyone a lot of bother – me, especially._

_I'm rambling now, my dear friend, so I will get to the point._

_I know you disapprove of my treatment of my boys. I have seen it in your eyes many times and in the purse of your lips but you have never uttered a word of censure against me. I am, in equal parts, grateful for your understanding and disappointed that you didn't voice your thoughts. It might have talked some sense into me. But it's too late now._

_I have ruined both my sons' lives – one through over-indulgence and the other through criminal neglect. Mycroft is a pompous prat, so like his father that I could cheerfully strangle him, sometimes. Sherlock is a lost soul who has hardened his heart against the whole world. I fear for both their futures._

_Caro, dear, you are the only person in the world who knows why I treated my youngest child so cruelly. I had to push him away. If I had not, I swear I might have killed him. He was and is a constant reminder of that dreadful night when I discovered the true nature of the man I call husband. I did it for the boy's own safety. I could not trust myself to be near him._

_I wish I could speak to Sherlock, apologise, explain, but it is too late for that. The gap between us is too wide, the damage too severe. He hates me, as is his right. But I don't hate him – not any more. I did, for a long time. Just the thought of him made me want to vomit but now, when I look at him, I see myself. He looks like me, he thinks like me, he is a chip off this old block. Mycroft is his father's child in almost every aspect but Sherlock belongs to me._

_I will never be able to tell my boys how I really feel about them. That stiff upper lip clamps down, whenever I try. But I need to tell someone so, forgive me, Caro, my best and only friend, but I am telling you. I love both my boys. I am proud of all their achievements - past, present and future – and I hope I am around to bask in their reflected glory, though I suspect that any glory reflecting off my youngest son will burn me to a crisp._

_So, there, I've said it, it is out. I love my boys, more than they will ever know._

_Thank you for your kindness and indulgence and apologies for being such a burden and a permanent drain on your ample resources._

_Your grateful friend_

_Violet._

Sherlock refolded the pages and pushed them back into the tattered envelope and then returned the whole thing to the larger receptacle, to join the sheaf of photos.

He sat, on the sofa, hands gripping the arm and the cushion, resisting the rising swell of emotions – so many, all tangled together, masking their individual natures, making identification and categorization impossible. His muscles strained with the effort of fight. It was a losing battle. The child inside had come to the fore. The tears were already coursing down his cheeks and his chest was heaving. There was nothing he could do. He was lost.

ooOoo

It was going dark outside when Molly called William from the crow's nest of the Jungle Gym and gathered up the now alert Freddie. She walked with Caro through the French windows, into the elegant drawing room, and then down a corridor and into the main kitchen. Like kitchens the world over, it was a warm and friendly place, the heart of the home. The cook was there, preparing the family evening meal for Caro and Henriques. The boys' noses twitched at the delicious aromas, rising from the pots, pans and oven. They were clearly ready to eat.

'There's plenty to go around, Molly, if you would all like to join us for supper,' Caro offered.

Molly gave a shrug. She was in shock at what she had read in Caro's careful account of the events of Sherlock's conception, gestation and birth. She could only imagine how he must be feeling.

'That will depend on Sherlock. He may not be feeling very sociable. I think I should go and speak to him, see how he is. Would you mind the boys, just for a moment?' she asked.

'I would be delighted. Let me get them a snack before Freddie starts to gnaw the table,' Caro replied.

Molly assured her boys she would be back in a while then went back through the house, following Caro's directions and found the closed door of the study. She tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. Inside, the room was dark but she could discern the outline of Sherlock's figure, sitting on the sofa, over to the right of the full length, floor to ceiling window. As she walked into the room and closed the door, she saw him turn his head toward her, his face in shadow.

Although she could not make out his features in the gloom, she could feel the stress and tension radiating off him, like an aura of anxiety. Molly crossed the floor, quickly, and sat beside him on the sofa, placing her hand over his and gripping it tight. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the sound that emerged was a broken croak.

'She did love me, Molly.'

Reaching out, she stroked his cheek with her hand and felt the sticky residue of long-dried salt water.

'Oh, my poor baby….' she breathed, as he folded at the waist and fell across her knees, clinging to her and heaving with a renewed bout of unrestrained sobbing. She wrapped her arms around him and wept, quietly, in tandem with him.

ooOoo


	15. Loose Ends Chapter 14

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

When Molly emerged from the study, looking pale and drawn, she turned right and walked a little way down the passage to the guest cloakroom that the Garden Party guests had been using all afternoon. She walked in and closed the door behind her, moved to the wash basin, leaned her hands on it and looked in the mirror. She looked a wreck. Her cheeks were red and streaked with tear tracks. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. Thank Heaven for waterproof mascara, was her 'cri de coeur'. But, she reminded herself, Sherlock looked a whole lot worse.

She ran some cold water into the basin and dipped a small hand towel into it, wrung it out and pressed it to her face, to tone down the redness. She then used a tissue to tidy up her eye makeup, decided she had done all she could, exited the bathroom and hurried back to the kitchen, anxious that she had been away from the boys much longer than she had intended.

She need not have worried. She was directed to the dining room by the ever-helpful male factotum and found William and Freddie seated at the dining table, with Caro and Henriques, tucking into a delicious repast. Freddie was singularly unconcerned at his parents' absence but William had clearly been worried, as he showed by the expression of relief that suffused his cheeks with colour, on her appearance.

'Molly, are you and Sherlock joining us for supper?' Henriques asked, solicitous but tactful, in deference to William's sensibilities.

'Thank you so much, Henriques. I would love to join you. Sherlock has asked me to pass on his apologies. He would rather be alone, at the moment. But he is extremely grateful for all your kindness to us.'

The factotum pulled out a chair and Molly sat down at the table, as Caro passed her a plate and invited her to help herself, from the serving dishes.

ooOoo

Eve Matthews was a very clever lady and she knew a huge amount about the human psyche, Sherlock was thinking, and on one point especially she had been bang on the money. There was nothing more cathartic than a damn good cry.

For a man who had spent most of his life denying the very existence of anything so sentimental as feelings, within his own psyche, it was with a great sense of irony that he found himself acknowledging the therapeutic efficacy of a complete surrender to the rawest, most basic, animalistic of emotions – sorrow. Those days of denial were long gone. First Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade, later Molly and John Watson, had proven that it was a blatant falsehood, a caprice, a vanity, to claim he had no heart.

He felt wrung out, exhausted, tremulous but he also felt an inner peace that was entirely new to him. He could not remember ever feeling so free of tension before.

The scientist in him knew that a neuronal connection existed between the lacrimal gland and the areas of the human brain involved with emotion. He also knew that tears produced during emotional crying had a different chemical composition to that of other types of tears. They contained significantly greater quantities of the hormones prolactin, adrenocorticotropic hormone and Leu-enkephalin, an opiate peptide, which acted upon the brain, like an opiate such as morphine, engendering a sense of calm.

Lab based studies had shown that the physical effects, such as increased heart rate, sweating, and slowed breathing, all contributed to the calming effect achieved by the act of crying. The lump in the throat, known as a globus sensation, he knew, was a response to the stress experienced by the sympathetic nervous system, when a person felt emotions like sorrow.

Another function increased by the sympathetic nervous system was breathing, which facilitated the opening of the throat, through the expanding of the glottis, to allow more air to pass through, thus increasing air flow. As the individual underwent this sympathetic response, the parasympathetic nervous system attempted to undo the response by decreasing high stress activities and increasing recuperative processes, including running digestion.

The physiology and chemistry were simple. But right now, he could not give a damn about the science stuff. All he knew was he felt a whole lot better than he had an hour ago. Had he been crying for an hour? Good grief, he had. Half an hour on his own and then another half hour after Molly arrived. That simple act of kindness, the placing of her hand on his, coupled with the liquid sympathy that swam in her eyes, had been all it took to set him off all over again.

She had gone now, to check on the boys and to get something to eat. He had heard her stomach growling, since his head had been in her lap, his ear pressed against her abdomen. He had urged her to go and find food and she had told him of Caro's kind invitation to share their supper. He didn't feel remotely hungry. And even if he had, he had no desire to expose his red, blood-shot eyes and puffy, swollen face to Caro and her husband, no matter how kind or understanding they were. A man has his pride.

His eyes felt hot and sore. He knew there was a guest cloak room just a short way down the passage from this room. He wondered if he dare risk running the gauntlet of being spotted by any one, if he made a dash for it. Then he remembered his Ray-Bans, in his inside jacket pocket. Yes , it would look weird wearing them indoors, in the dark but he had never cared about looking weird. He fished them out, put them on and opened the study door.

A cursory glance, up and down the passage, showed that the coast was clear, so he slipped out of the room, strode the short distance to the bathroom and slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind him and pulling the string to turn on the light. As he removed his Ray-Bans and gazed at his reflection in the mirror, he groaned. It was even worse than he imagined. He looked like someone had boiled his face – like a lobster.

Running the cold tap, he scooped handful after handful of refreshing water and repeatedly doused his face, for several minutes. After patting his skin dry, he looked again at his image. Much improved but still not presentable. In gazing at his reflection, he looked into his own eyes. Eyes – the windows to the soul. He wondered if his looked any different from before. He had never really paid them much attention, previously, so he had nothing with which to compare. But he felt they should look different. He felt so different.

He was still trying to come to terms with the revelations disclosed by Caro's words and his mother's letter but processing this information was going to take some time. It was mind-blowing. The person he thought was his mother was not. His mother was the person in those photographs. She was charming and bright, warm and caring, happy and funny, loving and loved. That person was destroyed by his father and replaced by the woman he had known. That woman was cold and cruel, hard and cutting, remote and aloof, unloved and unloving.

Everything he thought he knew to be the truth was a lie. His entire life would need to be re-evaluated. 'What if's' did not even begin to cover it. All preconceptions were null and void. On the one hand, this was an incredibly liberating experience, on the other, it was utterly terrifying. And it didn't pertain just to him. This would have repercussions for every other person in his life, not the least of those being Mycroft. He would have to be told about all this.

How would he react to learning that the father he admired and respected had raped and beaten the mother he adored? It had been a bone of contention between them for years that Sherlock had somehow 'upset Mummy', repeatedly. And now, it turns out, it was what Sherlock represented that had upset her, not Sherlock per se.

The small child was still the dominant force within him. He felt five years old. And that was the abiding, over-riding quality that he perceived in the eyes that scrutinized him from the surface of the glass. That was his five year old self, looking out at the world through his adult pupils. And he stared back.

ooOoo

The meal was over, the hour was late, the boys were wilting and Molly needed to get them home. She was about to return to the study, to see if Sherlock was ready to leave that sanctuary, when he appeared at the door to the dining room, wearing his sun glasses and clutching the large envelope in his hand. He looked pale and his lips were pursed into a thin line but his voice was steady as he thanked Caro and Henriques for their hospitality and asked Caro to spare him some time on Tuesday or Wednesday to brief him about the pledges that had been made by the party guests.

He picked up William, who was almost dead on his feet, and Henriques lifted Freddie who was rather more alert, having had the benefit of a late afternoon nap, and they walked through the elegant colonial property to the front door, where Caro's driver was waiting to take them back to the hotel.

The drive back was a quiet affair. The boys were both asleep before the car had cleared the driveway. Sherlock stared out of the window but held Molly's hand, fingers plaited together, and nibbled the thumb of his other hand. The envelope lay across his knees but was far from passive. It felt like a great weight, such was its power and import.

Once back in their suite, it was all hands to the pump, to get the boys to bed. When Molly emerged from their bedroom, the sitting room was deserted and their bedroom door was ajar. She turned off all the lights in the rest of the suite and went into the master bedroom. Sherlock was in the bathroom – she could hear the shower running. She unzipped her Audrey Hepburn dress and slipped it off, stepping out of it and hanging it up on the wardrobe door.

She sat at the dressing table and removed her makeup, unplaited her hair and brushed it out. The stylist had trimmed it so the edge was neat and straight, with no split ends. Her night dress was in the bathroom, hanging on the back of the door, so she removed her underwear and put on her silk, kimono-style dressing gown.

The shower had stopped some time ago. The bathroom door opened and Sherlock emerged, with a towel round his waist, his hair slicked back off his forehead and dripping down his back. Molly headed for the bathroom herself and received a damp hug, as they passed. He seemed remarkably calm, under the circumstances, though stunned would probably have been a better adjective.

When Molly came back into the bedroom, he was in bed, propped up on his pillows, with the large envelope in his lap. He looked very pensive but leaned over and kissed her cheek as she slid into bed beside him.

'You should read this,' he said, simply, reaching inside the larger envelope and extracting the smaller one, passing it to her. He returned to his thoughts as she opened and read the letter.

It was heart breaking for Molly, as a mother, to read the sadness and regret in this woman's words. She could not even imagine what Violet's life must have been like – so privileged on the surface, so deprived in reality - deprived of love, of fulfilment, of a career, of true happiness. The raw admission of love for her sons pricked Molly's eyes with tears. It was a tragic tale. She put the letter back in the envelope and leaned into Sherlock's side, offering unspoken comfort.

He took out the black and white photos and they viewed them together.

'Look at her, Molly. She's so young, so vibrant, so full of life.'

Molly could see a lot of Sherlock in these images of Violet – but not the Sherlock most people knew. When Randolph Holmes raped and beat his wife, he damaged more than one life. The tightly buttoned up man that she had fallen in love with was the product of that evil act in more than a biological sense. Yes, he was damaged but not destroyed. She had seen his true nature emerge gradually, over the years of their acquaintance, like a butterfly breaking out of its chrysalis, all the more beautiful for its austere beginnings.

She wrapped her arms around him and he draped his around her, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

'I wish I had known her, that Violet, the one that Caro knew,' he murmured.

He put the letter and the photos on the bedside cabinet and they curled up together. It had been a long day, a strange day, a day of huge contrasts. They were exhausted so, despite the internal clamour of their respective thoughts, they were both asleep in moments.

ooOoo


	16. Loose Ends Chapter 15

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This chapter is quite graphic so please be warned!**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Sherlock spent a restless night, with lots of muttering and mumbling and thrashing about, which meant that Molly had a broken night's sleep, too. He eventually settled down at about five a.m. but by then Molly was wide awake so she extricated herself from his octopus grip and slid quietly out of bed, heading for the sitting room. She left the bedroom door ajar. If he started rambling again, she wanted to know so she could come back and perhaps sooth his restlessness with calm words and a gentle hand on his cheek.

After a visit to the boys' bathroom, she put on the kettle and made a mug of tea – the universal panacea. She picked up her borrowed clutch bag and took out the envelope Caro had given her. Sitting in one of the arm chairs, she opened out the pages and read them again. The story of Violet's affair with the gentle concert pianist, Aadi, was as poignant and heart wrenching as any she had ever heard, even more so now that she had seen the photographs, the progression of their love played out before their eyes, in shot after surreptitious shot, from tentative beginnings to passionate abandon.

What a sad, wasted life for poor Violet. How many times had she wondered what became of her beloved Aadi? She must have feared the worst. A man like Randolph Holmes would have had many powerful friends. A simple musician would not have stood a chance. That woman was sold into slavery by her family in exchange for power, prestige and influence, in much the same way as her forebears had been – Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, William's and little Katy's namesakes. Does the world ever change, she wondered.

Molly could not imagine Mycroft doing such a thing to his daughter. Violet had been quite wrong there. Mycroft was nothing like his father, not on the inside, at least. Perhaps at work he lived up to his nickname, the Iceman, but at home he was a big softy. Mycroft would find it hard to take this news about his parents' true relationship. Molly hoped Sherlock would discover a hidden talent for tact and diplomacy when it came to that conversation. The brothers had so recently put their past contentions behind them. It would be a tragedy if this were to drive a new wedge between them.

Molly refolded the pages and returned them to the envelope. That missive would take a few more readings in order to be fully absorbed.

ooOoo

Sherlock was having an erotic dream. There was nothing new in that. In recent months, this had become an almost nightly occurrence. Initially, his leading lady in these dreams had most frequently been Irene Adler – which he had found so profoundly disturbing that, for a while, he tried to avoid sleep completely, with serious consequences. More recently, Molly had become the main protagonist, which was infinitely preferable but also disturbing – especially when he awoke and found they were just dreams.

There could be no doubt that his erectile dysfunction was psychological in origin, since he had no problem whatsoever achieving NPT. It was not even necessary to resort to the home diagnostic technique known as the Stamp Test, since the evidence was there to behold every day when he awoke with a full bladder and a 'morning glory'. But this only added to his frustration. Everything was in working order, except the switch, which was still stuck on 'Off'.

He awoke with a start and found himself alone, in the dark, in an empty bed. His memory of the dream was fading fast, as was the physical manifestation of his nocturnal arousal. He rolled over, with a groan. How much longer, he wondered, would this go on? Climbing out of bed, he padded to the bathroom to use the facilities and collect his dressing gown, then went in search of Molly. He found her dozing in a chair, in the sitting room. As he entered the room, she opened her eyes.

'Are you alright?' he asked, kneeling beside her chair and taking her hand in his.

'Yes, darling, I'm fine,' she replied, with a sleepy smile.

'Why are you sleeping in a chair?'

She sat up straighter, feeling guilty, now.

'You were a bit restless, babe, so I came in here…' she tailed off, lamely.

His suspicions confirmed, it was his turn to feel guilty.

'I'm so sorry, Molly. Do you want to go back to bed, to catch up on your sleep? I'm done sleeping for now.'

'No, thanks babe, I'm fine, really. The boys will be awake soon, anyway.'

'Would you like tea then, or coffee?'

'Tea would be lovely,' she replied.

He stood and walked over to the side table, in the corner, that held the kettle and the beverage-making things, and flicked on the kettle. It was six in the morning and, beyond the windows, it was just getting light. He made two mugs of tea and carried one to Molly, taking the other with him to the sofa. Sitting down, he ran his fingers through his hair and sipped from his mug, gazing into the middle distance, lost in thought.

Molly watched him for a few moments. He still looked stunned. That was probably the most appropriate response in such circumstances. She felt stunned, too, and it wasn't even her life that had just been thrown up in the air to land in complete disarray, like a pack of cards. She stood and crossed to the sofa, curled up next to him and put her head on his shoulder. He inclined his head toward her and gave a lop-sided grin.

'Where are my nicotine patches when I need them?'

She had managed to persuade him to stop using multiple nicotine patch applications to sharpen his focus, on the grounds that she wanted him to be around for a very long time, but even she considered making an exception. She didn't know what she could say or do to make this easier for him. She felt impotent.

'Don't beat yourself up, Molly. You are helping more than you could possibly imagine,' he said, pulling her into his side.

She drew her head back, to look at him.

'How do you do that?' she gasped.

'I know how your mind works.'

She snuggled back into his shoulder and they sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea and lost in their own thoughts until he said,

'I never felt any connection with my mother. She was a stranger to me. If anyone had asked if I were at all like her, I would have said no. I never knew about her love of Science and Mathematics. I knew she was a linguist, of course, but that was the only similarity I would have owned to. It's so ironic, now, to learn just how much we had in common…even down to our sexual history!'

As he ran the comparison through his data processor, the parallels were astonishing – years of celibacy, finding love, raped and humiliated.

'I completely understand how she felt. It all makes sense now. How could she look at me and not be reminded of what he did to her? In her situation, I'm sure I would have done the same.'

But there the similarities ended.

'I had you to put me back together. She had no one. How different her life would have been if she could have found her Aadi again….'

He suddenly stopped talking, leaving the sentence hanging in the air, as though a thought had just struck or something had distracted him. He turned, slowly, in his seat and looked down at her then reached over and put his empty mug on the side table, before taking hers and placing it next to his.

Turning his full attention back to her, his hand came up to her face and his fingers brushed her cheek as his thumb traced the line of her bottom lip. His lips parted and he leaned in as though to kiss her, but then stopped, mere millimetres separating his lips and hers. She could feel his soft breath on her face. His eyes burned into hers. She was mesmerised.

Still holding her with his gaze, he ran his hand down her neck, across her shoulder and down her arm. He took her hand and drew it across to place it on his crotch. And she knew what had distracted him. She looked down at where her hand lay, in his lap and then back to his face. His expression was a subtle blend of surprise, anticipation, desire, and apprehension.

Sherlock was a sensuous man and they had always been quite adventurous in their love making but, when it came to his own sexual gratification, he did not enjoy oral or manual stimulation, so she knew this was not what he was asking for. What he loved was body contact. She knew what he wanted.

Molly pushed up from the sofa and climbed into his lap, straddling his hips. As she lowered her weight onto him, she felt him respond immediately and he emitted a sharp gasp. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. His lips parted and his tongue skimmed her bottom lip as he ran his hands down her torso to settle on her hips. She rocked, slowly, back and forth, watching as his eyes smoldered, his cheeks suffused with colour and his lips became engorged with blood.

Molly was wondering how she could suggest they move to the bedroom, without spoiling the moment, but he was clearly on the same track. He gripped her around her body with one arm and used the other to push himself up, off the sofa. She wrapped her legs round his waist and her arms around his neck and clung to him, biting his neck, as he walked to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind them, with his foot, and lowered her onto the bed. She used the momentum to roll them both over so that she was sitting on top of him again and their eyes burned in unison.

He shrugged out of his dressing gown and pulled off his t-shirt then loosed the belt of her kimono and slipped the garment off her shoulders, pulling her nightdress up and off, over her head. He eased her body down on top of him, pressing their naked chests together, stroking her back and the nape of her neck, gnawing and sucking at her mouth. Then he was rolling them over again, pinning her arms above her head, bracing his weight on his elbows. Molly was keenly aware of the desperate urgency of his demeanour. He was fully aroused and, after six months of impotence, his body was demanding gratification. She knew that there would be none of his usual finesse.

Without even pausing to fully remove his pyjama bottoms, he hooked her right leg over his hip and drove into her. She groaned at the familiar deep sensation and they both inhaled sharply, savouring the moment of being made one. It was over so fast, unsurprisingly; just a few rapid thrusts and he climaxed, his body spasming and a guttural cry escaping his lips, before he collapsed on top of her, almost crushing her beneath his flaccid weight but remembering, just in time, to roll to the side, where he lay panting, eyes closed , mouth open, utterly sated.

As his breathing eased, Molly rolled toward him and laid her hand on his sternum. He turned his head toward her, opened his eyes and blinked rapidly.

'I am so sorry, Molly, that was selfish of me,' he apologised.

She shook her head, hugged him close and kissed his nose.

'You are such a silly goose, Sherlock Holmes! That was the best sex we've ever had. You were magnificent!'

ooOoo


	17. Loose Ends Chapter 16

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Patemalah21, for her birthday. Have a good one, Pat!**

**Chapter Sixteen**

An hour later, they lay together in a breathless tangle of limbs, both enjoying the post-coital haze that they had not shared in the longest time. After a brief respite, from their first frantic coupling, they had both been more than ready to go again. Sherlock's only reservation was the fact that they had no protection. Neither had wanted to tempt fate by packing condoms.

Molly assured him that she was not mid cycle so the risks were minimal.

'But, anyway,' she added, 'what if we did get pregnant? Would that be such a bad thing?'

He had looked at her with a furrowed brow and a quizzical smile.

'No, not necessarily. Do you have an opinion on the matter?' he asked.

'I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to have a little girl. Boys are lovely, I mean, I do love our boys but a girl would be lovely, too, don't you think?'

'But there are no guarantees,' he cautioned.

'Well, then, we'll just have to keep trying until we get one, won't we!' she giggled.

'Molly Hooper, you are a wonton woman,' he exclaimed.

'I know. And I've been wanton you like mad for about six months so we have a lot of wanton to make up for,' she replied, demurely, and they both collapsed in a fit of sniggering.

But the sniggering soon morphed into something more intimate. After the desperate urgency of the first time, this time, their love-making was slow, sensual, and deliciously naughty. There was a lot of teasing and enticing on both sides, as they each became reacquainted with the other's personal preferences. It was not something either of them wanted to rush and there was absolutely no reason to do so.

ooOoo

There was still no evidence of any movement from the boys' room but it had been a late night, the night before, so it was no surprise that they were sleeping longer. However, at eight o'clock, Sherlock got out of bed, picked up his discarded night clothes, put them back on and went to check that the boys were at least still breathing

As he pushed open the children's bedroom door, William woke up, sat up and rubbed his eyes.

'Daddy, what day is it?' he asked.

'Monday, sleepyhead, all day,' Sherlock replied, as he sat on William's bed and ruffled his eldest son's hair.

'Are we going to the centre today?' the little boy enquired.

'No, not today. Mummy and I thought we would have a family day, today, and go to the jungle.'

William's eyes lit up.

'Will we see lots of wild animals?' he asked, excitedly.

'Not if Freddie has anything to do with it, no,' his father observed. 'One screech from him and any self-respecting wild creature would be long gone. However, we will see lots of insects, especially ants. There are a lot of different kinds of ants in the rain forest. Believe me, I know. I've seen them – and felt them. They do know how to bite, if you get on the wrong side of them. But we will stay on the right side and not annoy them.'

During this exchange, Freddie had woken up, rolled out of bed, waddled over to William's bed and scrambled into Sherlock's lap.

'What do you say, Freddie? Shall we go to the jungle?'

'Dungle!' replied Freddie.

'Well, I think that motion is carried. Come on, let's get some breakfast.'

Sherlock caught William's outstretched arm and hoisted him onto his back then picked up a wriggling Freddie, positioned him under one arm and carried the two boys to the bathroom, where he removed Freddie's not so sodden night nappy and they all used the toilet before continuing into the sitting room. Molly was on the phone, ordering breakfast. Sherlock took the boys out onto the balcony and they looked at the ocean and watched the sea birds, flying and dipping, not to mention the early sun bathers and swimmers, establishing their pitches, staking their claim to a poll position on the beach, for the day ahead. This kept the boys amply entertained, until breakfast arrived.

ooOoo

The open-top jeep arrived at the hotel at ten a.m., to take the family on their four hour tour of the Botanical Gardens and the Tijuca Rainforest. The last time Sherlock had been in the rainforest, five years earlier, he had killed two people with his own bare hands – one a dear friend and the other a dangerous enemy. So this was bound to be an emotional experience for him. Molly was well aware of this and kept a clandestine eye upon him, knowing how to recognise the subtle signs he gave to indicate the most powerful of emotional responses – signs which could go quite unnoticed by the average observer.

After being picked up from the hotel, their tour began at the historic Rio de Janeiro Botanical Garden, where they saw a wide variety of exotic plants, from all over the world, including water lilies, huge redwood trees, enormous palm trees and a famous greenhouse that contained more than 500 different kinds of orchid. The garden also boasted dramatic fountains, historical monuments and hundreds of brightly coloured and extremely noisy birds, which Freddie enjoyed tremendously but which caused William to put his fingers into his ears and look most put out.

Their next stop was the Tijuca Rainforest, right in the heart of city. This was where the two deaths had occurred. Molly plaited her fingers with Sherlock's, as the jeep entered the forest and the sunlight was immediately muted by the dense canopy of the tress but he squeezed her hand and gave her a reassuring smile, to let her know she need not worry.

Once under the tree canopy, the family got out of the jeep and took a fairly innocuous 15-minute hike into the forest where they learned about the preservation of the ecosystem, from their very helpful and knowledgeable guide, who kindly repeated everything in both English and Portuguese, when he realised that William was keen to learn the language.

Along the way, they saw some beautiful views of the forest all around them and passed the _Cascatinha de Taunay_ , a magnificent waterfall, the _Capela Mayrink_ , a curious, pink building, a chapel built under the trees, and _Açude da Solidão_, the enigmatically named Loneliness Dike.

Along the way, despite Freddie's best efforts, they saw a great deal of wildlife – mainly monkeys and exotic birds, although Sherlock thought he caught a glimpse of a jaguar, slipping silently across the path, ahead of them. He asked the guide if there were jaguar in this part of the forest and was told there were but that they were rarely seen. Not normally given to flights of fancy or self-delusion, Sherlock concluded that he had actually seen one and considered himself extremely fortunate.

They also saw lots of exotic insects and even the much anticipated ants. The Amazon Rainforest was home to over a thousand different species of ant and they most certainly did not see examples of all of them but they did see the very large Bullet Ants, famous for their really painful sting, _Ectatomma tuberculatum_, who liked to collect honeydew from sap-feeding insects and carry it, between their mandibles, back to their nests, and Leaf-cutter ants, which seemed to be everywhere they looked, carrying pieces of freshly-cut leaves back to their nests, for the purpose of growing fungi, on which to feed. They were, indeed, farmers.

On the ride back, they stopped off at Pepino Beach to watch the hang gliders launching off the rocks and soaring, like giant birds of prey, catching the afternoon thermals and rising higher and higher into the sky. Molly asked the guide to drop them at the ice cream parlour and they ended their excursion with a celebratory ice cream – for her and Freddie – and an in-depth tasting session for Sherlock and William. It had been a perfect day and the family returned to the hotel, happy and tired, with lots to discuss about their adventure in the rainforest. Before they knew it, it was going dark and the boys were yawning, more than ready for their beds.

ooOoo

The next morning, Caro called Sherlock on the suite landline to arrange for them to meet at the centre, after lunch. Molly decided to stay at the hotel and take Freddie to the pool but William asked to go with his father.

'I can play with Rodrigo,' he announced, when Sherlock asked him what he would do while he was in his meeting. Rodrigo was the boy who had shown him how to play Jacks.

So it was settled and, after lunch, father and older son left in a taxi for the children's centre and mother and younger son went down to the pool.

On arrival at the Children's Centre, it transpired that Rodrigo was in lessons. Sherlock asked if it was OK for William to join the class and was told it was, so he left his son with the teacher, doing Maths in Portuguese, whilst he went to the interview room to wait for Caro. He spent the time chatting with Raoul, the Centre Manager, about various incidents that had occurred over the weekend. These included a baby being born, when a young woman turned up at the door in an advanced stage of labour. The doctor was sent for but the baby wouldn't wait. He was delivered by the Centre Receptionist – a mother of four, herself, so very familiar with the birthing process. Mother and baby were believed to be doing fine.

Caro arrived at the appointed time and the three of them sat down to discuss the business of the day.

ooOoo

William sat next to his new friend, Rodrigo, in the centre classroom. It was like no classroom he had ever seen before. The desks were all in rows and the teacher stood at the front, talking and writing on a white board. The ages of the pupils ranged from William's age to eleven or twelve but they were all learning the same thing.

The standard of the work seemed quite basic to William but he had to concentrate hard because the teacher and all the other children spoke in Portuguese. When the teacher asked him a question, he knew the answer but he had to translate it before he could give it. A couple of the other children began to laugh at William's slowness but the teacher spoke sharply to them and they looked morose. Another boy sighed, loudly, which unsettled the new boy still more. Eventually, he gave the answer and the teacher rewarded him with a smile. Rodrigo gave him a sideways look and an encouraging wink, which made him feel a bit less embarrassed. For a boy accustomed to being the quickest in the class, this was a levelling experience. He focused back on the teacher and concentrated very hard.

ooOoo

Molly was in the trainer pool with Freddie, in his inflated arm bands, doggy-paddling about. He was so very confident in the pool, dipping his face in the water and looking around at the underwater scene, it occurred to her that he could probably manage without the water wings. He was a chubby child and, therefore, likely to be very buoyant. Whilst he was so fearless, this could be the perfect opportunity to let him learn to swim.

She scooped him up and popped him on the side, whilst she removed his arm bands.

'Come on, little butterball, you will bob like a cork with all your subcutaneous fat. Let's see how you get on,' she encouraged him, smiling at his facial expression, as he gazed at his abandoned floatation aids, wondering what was going on.

She lowered him into the water and released her hold on him but kept one hand under his body, just to keep him on the surface. It took him a moment or two to correct his stability in the water, but he kicked his legs and began to move about, with Molly shadowing him. Very gradually, she withdrew the support of her hand and he slowly sank below the surface but he did not panic at all. In fact, he seemed to be really enjoying the experience.

Molly took a breath and ducked under herself. Freddie was suspended in the water, arms and legs paddling gently, tiny bubbles emerging from his hair and rising to the surface, looking for all the world like the cover of the Nirvana album. She watched as he rolled over onto his back, his face broke the surface and he took a breath.

For the next few minutes, Molly repeated the exercise of supporting him and gradually withdrawing that support, as he learned by trial and error, how to manoeuvre himself in the water. It was a very special moment for her, sharing this learning experience with her youngest son. William learned to swim at school, so she never saw him go through this discovery of independence in the water. But she could see Freddie was getting tired, so she fished him out and took him back to their lounger, wrapped him in a fluffy towel and hugged him until he fell asleep.

Laying him down on the lounger, she stretched out next to him, musing on the previous twenty four hours. She and Sherlock had made love the night before and again this morning. It was as though they had to make up for lost time. During the intervening pillow talk, he had explained how thinking about his mother's situation had cleared his mental block so dramatically.

'The parallel between her experience and mine is so astonishing. My father saw her as threat to his ego. He had to prove his dominance over her and he used sex for that purpose. Irene treated me in the same way. She thought I had used her for my own purposes. She was right. That wounded her ego. She needed to re-establish her superiority and she used sex to do it. They both wanted to humiliate us and they did.

It occurred to me that, if Violet had found Aadi again, he would have reminded her that sex was not about brute strength and domination. He would have healed her. It made me realise the answer was right in front of me all along. I just had to let you heal me. And you did.

It was never about dominance with you and I, it was about sharing and facilitating and meeting each other's needs. Sex is beautiful, in the right hands.'

It certainly was in his hands, she thought, his musician's hands. He played her like a musical instrument and produced a veritable symphony of pleasure.

She decided she should abandon the musical analogies, as she was beginning to sound like a cheap paperback. She turned her thoughts to baby talk. He seemed OK with the idea of another baby. That came as no surprise. He loved his son's and she knew he would love a daughter just as much. She had an admission to make, to herself.

She had secretly hoped that Freddie would be a girl and had been momentarily disappointed when he turned out a boy – but only for the briefest of moments. How could anyone look at the child they had just given life to and wish they were something they were not? Certainly not her, but it would be so lovely to have a little girl - to dress in pretty clothes, to share girly moments, to take to ballet. What had Isabelle Galbraith's mum said? I love my son but a daughter is such a blessing. Molly wanted a little girl more than she cared to admit. She was almost desperate.

Throughout the last six months, her greatest fear had been that, if Sherlock's difficulties were never resolved, she would not have any more children. She couldn't admit that to him - he had felt bad enough already - and she didn't really have any close girl friends with whom she could discuss it. Mary was close but to tell Mary was to tell John and that was out of the question.

But now, anything was possible. They had defeated the demon that was Irene. She could not harm them any more.

ooOoo

'We did very well, on Sunday,' Caro announced, proudly. 'Your brother would have been impressed with your diplomatic skills, Sherlock!'

'I seriously doubt that, Caro. I know my limitations. Luckily, Molly was on hand to prod me when I was about to inadvertently insult someone's mother or sister or maiden aunt.'

'You underestimate your powers of persuasion, Sherlock. Everyone was very impressed with your passion, your eloquence and your knowledge of the subject. And the fact that you were prepared to put your own money into the project was reassuring to them.'

'My mother's money, Caro.'

'The money your mother left to you, trusting that you would use it wisely, which you have.'

'On that subject, I feel we should recognise my mother's contribution to this enterprise. I don't know how you feel about this but I would like to rename the fund that supports the DNA matching work. I'd like to call it the Violet Vernet Memorial Fund.'

Caro was rendered speechless by this sudden and unexpected announcement. She felt herself tearing up and blinked rapidly but to no avail. The salt water insisted on trickling down her cheeks. She brushed them away, smiling self-consciously, and finally managed to say.

'She would be honoured to put her name to such a good cause and how appropriate - a project that reunites people with their lost loved ones.'

ooOoo


	18. Loose Ends Chapter 17

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

The business of the day was almost concluded when there was the sound of some kind of disturbance from the Reception area of the centre. Raoul excused himself to go and investigate but returned a few minutes later, looking shocked and concerned.

'What is it?' Caro asked, feeling his alarm.

'The young woman, the one who had the baby on Saturday, her husband is here, looking for her. He says she and the baby have gone missing. He says some people came from the clinic and took her away. He seems to think she is here.'

Caro and Sherlock looked at one another.

'Bring him in here. Let me talk to him,' Sherlock ordered. Raoul obeyed.

Moments later, the centre manager returned with a man who looked anxious and furious, in equal measures. When he entered the room and saw Sherlock and Caro, he began shouting again.

'What have you done with my wife and my son? Where are they?'

Caro was taken aback, momentarily, but Sherlock stood ip and held up a placatory hand, saying,

'They are not here but if you stop shouting and tell us what happened, we might be able to help you find them.'

A combination of his physical presence – especially his height – his soothing gesture and his command of Portuguese seemed to work on the man, who immediately began to apologise and wring his hands, in what was almost a parody of anxiety.

Sherlock pointed to a chair and told him to sit down. The man did.

'OK. Tell us what happened – every detail. Start at the very beginning and leave nothing out,' he instructed.

The man took a deep breath and began.

'When my wife became pregnant, we had no money for a doctor so she was being cared for by the older women – you know, being told what to eat and what to expect during the pregnancy, how to look after herself. Then, a woman came up to her in the street, said she worked for a charity that would take care of her and the baby. She started going to the clinic and they gave her food and clothes and other things. They said she should come to them when the baby was due to come and they would help her to give birth. We were very grateful

Then, on Saturday, she was out working – she cleans at one of the hotels – and the baby started to come. It was too far to go to the clinic, so she came here and your lady helped her to have the baby. Then she came home again and everything was fine. But, yesterday, the woman came from the clinic and was surprised to see she had had the baby already. She said she should go back with her to be checked over by the doctor. My wife went with her, taking our baby also, but she did not come back. She has still not come back.'

The man, having finished his story, began to sob and shake. Raoul put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

Sherlock spoke quietly, soothingly,

'Why did you think they would be here?'

'Because it was the only place I knew to come. I don't know where the other clinic is. And I thought that, maybe if the baby was born here, Teresa might come back here, if she needed help,' the man replied, between sobs and distraught moans.

'Do you know the name of this clinic that your wife has been going to?' Sherlock asked, now in full detective mode.

'I don't remember. My wife never said a name, I don't think.'

'Think hard! Remember all the times she talked about the clinic. Try to remember a name.'

The man screwed up his eyes and wracked his brains and suddenly declared,

'Winifred! Yes! St Winifred's Clinic.'

Sherlock looked at Caro, quizzically. She shook her head.

'I have never heard of the place. If it was an official registered charity and an authorised clinic, I should have heard of it. They would have fund-raisers, they would be on the circuit,' she stated.

Sherlock turned back to the man.

'Do any other pregnant women use this clinic? Any one you know?'

He shook his head and sobbed some more.

'I never asked her. It is women's business, having babies, nothing to do with men.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but did not comment on that statement. He turned back to Caro.

'Do you know how I can get hold of Ru'e?' he asked.

Caro nodded.

'Yes, I have an address. It's in the favela but Raoul, here, would be able to take you there, wouldn't you?' She looked at the manager, who nodded, vigorously.

'What about the police? Should we call them?' Sherlock asked, though he already knew the answer. Not all police forces were like the Met and not all officers were like DI Lestrade.

'The police won't consider it a priority. Young women – and men – go missing from the favela every day. They might register a missing person, if you or I reported it, but they would not give any investigative time to it.

'OK, we'll have to do it ourselves. Caro, could you take care of William, see that he gets back to the hotel? And explain to Molly what's happened?'

'Of course,' she replied.

With that, he looked at Raoul and nodded. He then turned to the desperate husband and father.

'Tell us where you live.'

He did. Then, the detective said,

'Go home. Ask around your neighbours and see if any of them are using this clinic. If they are, find out an address. Do you have access to a phone?'

The man nodded, again.

'Do you know how to use a phone?'

Nod.

Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper from the printer in the corner of the room and wrote down his mobile number, in large, clear characters. He gave it to the man, along with a small amount of money, to pay for any calls.

'If you find out the address of the clinic, phone me on that number and tell me.'

The man nodded again. He seemed rather stunned by the way in which Sherlock was handling the situation. He began to think he had come to the right place, after all.

Sherlock followed Raoul from the building, putting on his hat and Ray-Bans as he went, and got into the centre manager's car. They drove through the busy streets and the nature of the buildings began to change as they approached the favela. It all looked eerily familiar to Sherlock, awakening memories of another car ride, in a very different kind of car, five years before.

They came to a point where the car would no longer go. The roads had become tracks and were far too narrow to admit any motor vehicle larger than a motor bike. Raoul pulled over and they got out. He locked the car, said a small prayer, and crossed himself – hoping that the car would still be there when he returned to it.

They continued on foot and Sherlock had some vague recollections of the surroundings but the only two times he had walked in this area it had been pitch dark and he had been led – literally by the hand – by Rocky. Eventually, they turned down a side path which ran down a slope and, at last, Sherlock recognised where they were. At the bottom of the slope was the little enclosed yard and the shack where he had hidden, for five days, from Moriarty's minions and the assassin, The Little Demon.

Raoul called out and, from the gloom of the shack, Maria emerged, looking curious and a little alarmed until she recognised Raoul and Sherlock, and then her face broke out into a broad smile.

'Holmes!' she cried and ran to hug him.

After exchanging greetings and solicitations, Sherlock got straight down to business.

'Where is Raoul? Do you have any way to contact him?'

Maria replied that he was working at a garage, as a labourer but learning to be a mechanic. She did not know the phone number but she did know the name of the garage. Sherlock tried to look it up on Google Maps, but there was no wi-fi signal. They would have to go there. They were about to leave when he suddenly thought.

'Maria, do you know the St Winifred's Clinic?'

Her face lit up.

'Oh, yes, Holmes. I go there myself. They are looking after me and my baby.'

ooOoo

When William came out of the lesson, with Rodrigo, he was looking forward to a game of Jacks with his friend but, instead, Caro was waiting for him.

'William, You daddy has had to go somewhere on business. He's asked me to take you back to your mummy at the hotel.'

William was not fond of sudden changes of plan. He liked to know what was going to happen next and when the expected thing did not happen, it made him feel very insecure, quite panicky, in fact. He felt his heart began to race a little but he remembered what his father had told him he should do when this happened. He started to list the chemical symbols for all the elements on the Periodic Table, in the order of their atomic number. By the time he got to Zinc, he felt much better.

However, by this time, both Caro and Rodrigo were staring at him, rather alarmed by the appearance of his face, with his eyes squeezed tight shut and his lips moving but no sound emerging. He smiled, shyly at both of them and said,

'Alright, are we going now?'

Caro looked very relieved – having thought for a moment that he had been having some kind of seizure.

'Yes, William dear, just as soon as I get my bag and jacket,' she replied and went back to the interview room to retrieve them.

William turned to Rodrigo and said, rather disappointedly,

I wanted to show you a really fast way I have worked out to pick up the pebbles while the ball is still in the air.'

Rodrigo was intrigued.

'Next time, my friend, you must show me next time!'

Caro returned and William waved goodbye, as they left the building, to go to her car. On arrival at the hotel, she asked the person on Reception to call the Hooper Holmes suite and tell Miss Hooper her son was back. She was advised that Molly and Freddie were by the pool so William showed her the way.

Molly was surprised to see William approaching, around the pool edge, without Sherlock until Caro explained, briefly, what had happened. Molly was horrified to hear of the missing woman and her baby

'Thank goodness Sherlock was there,' she gasped. 'If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's him.'

She invited Caro to take a seat and ordered an afternoon beverage for all of them, from an attentive waiter, then listened, intently, as Caro told her about the fund-raising effort and Sherlock's idea for renaming the DNA project fund. Molly smiled to herself. That was so sweet of him to do that and it proved that he really did forgive his mother for treating him so cruelly, for all that time, those many years ago.

ooOoo

Sherlock and Ru'e stood across the street from the St Winifred's Clinic, in the shadows of a narrow side entrance, observing the comings and goings of people to and from the building. There were certainly a lot of pregnant ladies in this part of Rio. Sherlock had counted seventy two of them, so far, entering the clinic, during the hour and a half that they had been watching. Sixty-three had emerged and gone away. Of those that remained inside, five looked extremely far advanced in their gestation period.

It was quite late in the afternoon, so Sherlock assumed that routine clinic appointments should be coming to an end sometime around now. The numbers entering had certainly dwindled to zero in the past few minutes. Half an hour later, no new ladies had entered and all but the five very large women had left. Then staff began to leave, too, and Sherlock deduced that the five ladies who were very close to term had probably been admitted.

He really wanted a look inside the building and was trying to come up with a plausible reason to justify going in. He was still musing on this when his phone vibrated in his pocket, on 'silent'. He took it out. It was not a number he recognised. He answered and said hello. His ear was immediately assailed by the sound of hysterical crying. He clamped his thumb over the tiny speaker at the bottom of the phone but continued to hold the mobile to his face. Eventually, there was a pause in the howling and he said, quickly,

'Tell me what's wrong.'

'She's dead! My Teresa is dead! Mother of God, she is dead! But where is our baby?!'

ooOoo


	19. Loose Ends Chapter 18

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Sherlock told the man he would do everything he could to find his child. He told him to stay at his home and not go out looking for the baby. He did not want the man blundering into this situation. He eventually got off the phone and immediately rang Caro. She was back at home. It was early evening and it was dark.

'Does Henriques have any contacts in Covert Operations?' he asked, straight off the bat, with no preamble. Caro was taken a little by surprise by his directness but soon realised that the situation must be desperate.

'Yes, he does. What do you need?'

Sherlock explained, quickly, what he believed was going on and what he needed. Caro took it all down, in shorthand on the phone-side note pad then read it back, to check she had it down correctly. He confirmed she did and rang off. As he had been speaking English to Caro, he then explained to Ru'e what he had just set up. The young man nodded his understanding and the both settled back into the shadows to wait.

Fifteen minutes passed and Sherlock was becoming agitated. How long did it take to mobilise a Black Ops team in this place, he wondered? Then, a sleek, black chauffeur-driven car, with tinted windows, glided to a halt outside the front entrance to the clinic. The chauffeur opened the rear off-side passenger door and a very stylishly dressed lady stepped out and went into the clinic.

Another fifteen minutes passed and Sherlock drummed his fingers on the side of his leg and muttered,

'Come on, come on, come on,' over and over again.

The door to the clinic opened and the woman emerged. She was carrying a baby car seat. It looked occupied. He had to act fast.

He whispered some instructions to Ru'e and then, taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and strolled out of the hiding place. In his cream linen suit and fedora, he stood out like a sore thumb, in the darkening gloom. Adopting a slightly loose-limbed swagger, he crossed the street toward the car. The woman had just finished clipping the baby seat into the nearside rear passenger seat and was about to walk around the back of the car and get in herself. Sherlock blocked her way.

'I say, hello!' he said, in English, in a bright, cheerful upper-class twit sort of voice. 'I don't suppose you could do me a jolly good turn, could you? You see, I've only gorn and got m'self lorst, don'cha know!'

The woman stared at him, with his silly grin and guileless eyes and tried to go past him. He shimmied to the side, to block her move again and emitted a loud snort of a laugh.

'I know, we Brits, we think we own the place, don't we? I don't blame you for not understanding me. We always expect everyone to learn English! Hang on, I think I've got the phrase book somewhere here,' and he began to pat his pockets, trousers and jacket, front and back, inside and out, looking for his imaginary Portuguese phrase book.

'I understand you perfectly, you stupid man!' the woman hissed. 'But I am in a great hurry and you are in my way!' She tried again to get past him but this time he put his hands together in a begging gesture and began to bow, repeatedly, in front of her.

'I do beg your pardon, madam, I cannot apologise enough for my crass stupidity. Of course you speak English, a cultured, educated lady such as yourself. Ignore me, please, I am such a ninny. But, since you are now cognisant of my dilemma, could you do me the great favour of giving me a lift back to civilisation and dropping me somewhere near my hotel? I would be most awfully chuffed.' He paused and gave her his full searchlight smile.

Before she could recover from the shock of his audacity, he put his hand on the door handle and yanked open the rear door, declaring,

'Allow me to assist you into your vehicle, madam and I will go round and sit on the other side!'

She grabbed his arm and roared.

'I can't sit there, you moron! There's a baby in there!'

By now, the chauffeur had realised something was amiss and, opening the driver's door, began to climb out. Leaving the car door open, Sherlock, apologised still more profusely, took the woman's arm and began to push, lead or drag her round the rear of the car, proclaiming loudly that he would assist her to her seat on the other side of the car, and telling her just how much he loved babies.

'Don't have any of the little tykes m'self, you understand! Hoping the mem'sahib might pop one out one of these days, doncha know!'

The chauffeur, rather than coming round to the near side of the vehicle, stayed on the off, to intercept Sherlock when he arrived with the protesting woman. Unseen by all, Ru'e slipped from the shadow of the clinic building, to where he had crossed during Sherlock's diversion, and, crouching low, reached into the car, unclipped the seat belt, lifted the baby seat and scuttled away with it, back into the darkness.

The woman was really angry now and, yanking her arm out of Sherlock's grasp, she yelled at the chauffeur to go and shut the other back door and went to grab the handle of the offside passenger door. Sherlock got there first.

'No, madam, I insist! Allow me!' He yanked the car door open, with a flourish and stood back to allow her to climb in. She bent and lifted her right leg, in preparation for sliding, elegantly, into the plush, leather seat and was just about to do so when the chauffeur yelled, in Portuguese. Her face froze in a rictus snarl.

'What? What the HELL are you talking about?' she screamed, then bent to look into the back of the car herself and saw that the baby seat and baby were gone.

She turned on Sherlock like an enraged tiger.

'What have you done with that baby!?'

'Sorry?' he replied, with a furrowed brow. 'Sorry, not with you, madam. Me? I've been here, talking to you. What could I have possibly done with the little beastie?'

But she was not falling for it. She stood up as tall as her slight frame permitted and grabbed his lapel, snarling at the chauffeur. Sherlock turned his head and looked over the roof of the car, straight down the barrel of a semi-automatic hand gun.

'Oh, I say,' he said. 'Now that is just not cricket!' and in one smooth action, he grabbed the woman's arm, spun her round and held her in front of him, as a shield.

And it was upon this scene that the covert ops personnel happened, as they materialised from the gloom of the darkened street, armed to the teeth but silent as cats and surrounded the tableau of car, chauffeur, woman and Sherlock.

'Touche!' Sherlock quipped, right in the woman's shell-like ear.

ooOoo

The building was surrounded and entered by the black ops team. The staff were taken into custody, apart from a doctor and two midwives who were in the process of delivering two babies. They were placed under guard and allowed to continue their work. A fleet of ambulances was sent for and the other three very pregnant ladies were escorted from the building by medical staff and taken to a private clinic near-by, along with three babies who were in a crèche. Their birth mothers were nowhere to be found.

Once the cavalry arrived, Ru'e emerged from his hiding place, with the baby seat and occupant, which he happily handed over to a paramedic. The woman and her chauffeur were taken into custody. A number of computers were seized, along with a cabinet full of paper files.

Sherlock and Ru'e entered the building, in the company of Henriques, who had arrived with the military, and his contact in the Department of Internal Affairs, who had authorised the raid. As they strolled from room to room, Henriques mobile phone rang and he answered it to Caro. They had a brief conversation, then he turned to Sherlock and said,

'My wife says you must phone your wife and tell her you are fit and well.'

Sherlock gave a contrite nod and did just that. Molly answered immediately.

'Everything is fine. The mothers are all fine as are the babies – although we do have three spare babies but we also have all their records. It looks as though they have been going round the favela, hoovering up pregnant women, offering them free maternity care and then stealing their babies to sell on to the highest bidder. We managed to intercept one that was just being shipped out. I ran a bit of interference and Ru'e nabbed it out of the back of the car.'

Molly listened to the euphoria in his voice. He was buzzing with adrenalin, as he always was, when he solved a case. She told him she loved him and that she would see him later. He hung up. Normally, Molly knew, he and John would go for a meal at the Chinese round the corner, when they solved a case. This was a ritual but it also served the purpose of burning off the adrenalin. She wondered what he would do tonight.

Sherlock turned to Ru'e and said,

'Would you like to go for a meal?'

Ru'e frowned and shook his head.

'Holmes,' he said, gravely, 'Maria has been cooking all day. If I don't go home and eat her food, she will murder both of us!'

They nodded, in agreement, then dissolved into a fit of giggles. Sherlock insisted that Ru'e go home to his wife, since he could not ring to reassure her of his safety, but he made a tentative arrangement to treat him and Maria to a meal in the very near future – one that Molly and the boys could attend, too.

He also asked him to make a detour to Teresa's husband's home, to tell him to come to the centre in the morning and that they might have rescued his baby. Sherlock firmly believed that one of the four motherless infants must belong to the man whose wife had been found dead. Her body would need to be examined, to determine cause of death. The husband's DNA would have to be compared with that of the babies. All the babies DNA would need to be taken, as a starting point for reuniting them with their birth parents.

These were clearly not the first newborns to be stolen from their mothers and sold on for profit. The files would need to be scrutinized to identify previous birth mothers and to find out where the babies were sent. Who had adopted them? Did the adoptive parents know that the neonates had been stolen? How far afield had the babies been sent? Were they even still in Brazil?

Sherlock stayed on to see what he could do to assist the officers on site. There was a lot more work still to be done before this case was fully resolved but not tonight. Henriques and his friend were preparing to leave the crime scene and let the authorities complete the processing of the site. Sherlock agreed that there was nothing more to be done this night. The mothers and babies were all safe, including the two ladies who gave birth after the raid took place. Their doctor and nurses, having completed their night's work, were taken into custody, to be interviewed in the morning. It was possible that they knew nothing of the baby trafficking – but unlikely. That would need to be established one way or the other, all in good time.

The government minister had given his assurance that the Rocky Foundation would have the job of DNA testing all the babies and would be involved in finding other mothers who had lost babies at the clinic. It was Sherlock's guess that the mothers had all been told their babies had died. Infant mortality rates were high here so it was a lie they would be likely to swallow. It would be a mammoth task to track them all down but so rewarding, when successful.

ooOoo

Henriques dropped Sherlock at his hotel and he took the lift up to the penthouse. He felt tired but also elated. It had been a job well done and he had thoroughly enjoyed the thrill of the chase. But the adrenalin rush was wearing off and his limbs were beginning to feel heavy.

He opened the door to the sitting room and stepped inside. All was quiet in the suite. The boys would be in bed. The windows to the balcony were open and he could hear and smell the ocean. He crossed to the threshold and looked outside. Molly was lying on the lounger, eyes closed. She had clearly waited up for him to return but sleep had gotten the better of her.

He knelt next to the lounger and watched her sleeping for a long while, then leant forward and kissed her, gently, on the lips. She squirmed and stretched and opened her eyes to meet his blue-grey-green gaze. She smiled and reached for him and, suddenly, he didn't feel quite so tired.

ooOoo


	20. Loose Ends Chapter 19

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

Molly awoke, feeling blissfully happy, with a Disney theme tune running in her head. She wasn't sure if this was a hangover from recent visits to the ice cream parlour or a reference to the way Sherlock had awoken her, on the lounger, the night before. Well, her prince seemed to be coming quite regularly at the moment. She was a little concerned about that. She was still a week away from the fertile phase of her cycle. She hoped he didn't peak too soon.

Not that she was complaining. God, no! After six months of celibacy, she was more than happy with the recent turn of events but she was not an octopus. She lacked the ability to store semen and use it to fertilise eggs at a later date. She hoped that perhaps he was using up his Y chromosomes, at the moment, and saving his X chromosomes for when it really counted. The mental image of some sort of marshalling system, sorting the Y's and the X's and sending some into battle and holding some in reserve, made her giggle.

Without moving a muscle or even opening his eyes, Sherlock muttered,

'Do I amuse you?' giving a creditable impersonation of Joe Pesci, in Goodfellas, which made her snort and turned the giggle into a full blown guffaw.

With eyes still closed, he continued,

'I'll give you something to snigger about, in a minute, Miss Hooper.'

This only made matters worse. Molly was corpsing, now, quite unable to control her mirth. Sherlock suddenly launched into action, rolled over, grabbed her round her middle and proceeded to tickle her, mercilessly, until she was screaming with laughter. It was that moment that William chose to open the master bedroom door and peer inside.

'Daddy! What are you doing to Mummy!' he demanded.

'Help me, William!' Molly squealed. 'Get Daddy!'

William charged across the room and launched onto the bed, landing on top of Sherlock and throwing his arms round his father's neck. Freddie, who was not far behind his brother, crossed to the bedside and stood bouncing up and down - since it was too high for him to climb up - squealing, excitedly.

'Agh! Parent abuse!' Sherlock yelled, grabbing William and wrestling him with one arm, whilst hauling Freddie up onto the bed with his free hand. The three-way wrestling match provided Molly with an opportunity to scramble out of bed and sneak off to the bathroom. When she emerged, a few moments later, Sherlock was lying on his back, eyes closed, tongue protruding from the side of his mouth, arms splayed in the cruciform position, and the two boys were sitting, one behind the other, on his chest.

'We won, Mummy!' chortled William. 'We saved you!'

'Oh, you are my heroes!' Molly enthused, hand on heart. 'Thank you so much, my brave boys! Who wants breakfast?'

'Me!' shouted William and Sherlock, in unison, Daddy suddenly back from the dead. Freddie just shouted.

ooOoo

When breakfast arrived, the family gathered round the table. Sherlock poured coffee for himself and Molly and the boys both had milk. Molly watched William eating his croissant. He was so precise in his movements, as he carefully dissected the item. She was reminded of her conversation with Caro, the day before.

'Is William alright?' the lady had asked, with genuine concern in her voice and eyes.

'I think so,' Molly had replied. 'Why do you ask?'

Caro had looked distinctly uncomfortable at that point.

'It's alright, Caro, you can say what's bothering you. I won't be offended, really,' Molly had assured her friend.

'Well, it's just that, when I told him that his daddy had had to go somewhere and that I would be binging him back to you, he did something rather odd.'

'Oh, did he do the stress buster?' Molly asked.

'The what?'

'The stress buster. Sherlock taught him to do it.'

Caro looked none the wiser.

'William likes routine. He likes to know what's about to happen. If something unexpected happens, he gets stressed. In order to cope with the stress of the unexpected, he needs to think about something that is predictable, reliable, and therefore reassuring. So Sherlock taught him to recite the Periodic Table – the table of elements – in the order of their atomic number. It helps him to keep calm whilst he comes to terms with the change of routine.'

Caro's face was a picture.

'I see!' she declared. 'Well, that is a relief. To be honest, Molly, I was really worried. I thought he was having a fit!'

Molly had a vision of William, eyes closed, lips moving, as he silently recited the names of the elements. She could see what Caro was referring to and suddenly, it did seem rather amusing. She began to titter and, after a moment or two, Caro joined in.

'Well, it certainly works,' Caro stated, between chuckles. 'When I first told him Sherlock had gone away, he looked really panic-stricken but then, after he'd done the…stress buster, he was fine. How clever of Sherlock to think of that!'

'Well, apparently he used to do it himself – not for the same reason, though. In fact, for kind of the opposite reason.'

'In what way?'

'Sherlock gets bored very easily. If he has nothing to occupy his mind, he gets a sort of sensory deprivation response. So he has certain things that he uses to keep himself occupied. When he was really young, it was the Periodic Table, then it was calculating pi, then it was quadratic equations.'

'What is it now?'

'I have no idea. He goes to his Mind Palace and that's his private place. I don't know what he gets up to in there. Mind you, now we have the boys, he doesn't really have time or opportunity to get bored! There's always something to do or to think about.'

'What and where is his Mind Palace?' Caro was intrigued.

Molly explained about Sherlock's Mind Palace and Caro listened, with rapt attention.

'You know, he is more like Violet than I could possibly have imagined, before I met him. I don't know if she had a Mind Palace or a Mind anything but she did used to get bored easily and she used to do mathematical calculations in her head. Her heroine was the mathematician, Ada Lovelace.'

Molly was learning so much about Violet. She wondered whether Sherlock knew this much about his own mother.

'Caro, have you ever considered writing a biography of Violet? You know so much about her. I know Sherlock would really appreciate learning more about her. I'm sure Mycroft would, too. I don't know that he is any more informed than Sherlock.'

Caro gave that idea some consideration.

'You know, it would never have occurred to me to do that but I think that is a wonderful idea. Thank you, Molly for suggesting it.'

'Earth to Molly, come in, please!'

Sherlock's voice broke into her thoughts. She blinked and looked at him.

'That absence was worthy of me at my most distracted,' he quipped, leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek.

She smiled, slightly embarrassed to have been caught wool-gathering.

'What did I miss?'

'Oh, nothing much. Freddie just said 'floxinoxinihilipilification' but apart from that…..'

Molly pursed her lips in mock disapproval but William did not see the joke.

'Daddy, Freddie did not say that! Don't you listen to Daddy, Mummy! Freddie can't say long words yet.'

'Daddy is very naughty, isn't he, William,' Molly chided. Sherlock looked suitably censured and reached over to ruffle William's hair.

'Sorry, William, I was just having a joke,' he explained.

William thought for a moment then smiled.

'That's alright, Daddy. I don't think Mummy believed you.'

They all laughed.

'What's on the agenda today?' Molly asked.

'It's a nice clear day. How about we go up Sugarloaf Mountain? If we go early, I believe the queues for the cable car are minimal. And we could buy the tickets in advance, on line, so we won't have to queue at all.'

'That sounds like a great idea,' Molly agreed and smiled round at all three of her boys.

ooOoo

At around eleven o'clock, the taxi dropped the family at the cable car terminal, at _Praia Vermelha_, at the base of the _Babilônia_ hill, where there was a small queue for the _bondinho_,as the cable car was known locally, but, thanks to the expediency of booking ahead, on line, and the fact that the hotel reception had kindly printed out the tickets for them, they were able to go to the front of the queue and get straight onto the first car available.

It took just three minute to ride to _Morro da Urca,_ 220 metres above sea level, where William and his father spent about half an hour looking round the museum and Freddie and Molly looking round the tourist shops, before commencing the second leg of the trip, up to 528 metres above sea level, on _Pão de Açúcar_ (Sugarloaf Mountain), located at the mouth of Guanabara Bay, where there was snack bar and a huge viewing deck.

On the way up, Sherlock and William were transfixed by the dramatic views, as the cable car climbed higher and higher. Molly, who had no head for heights and, in fact, suffered mildly from vertigo, kept her eyes firmly averted from the glass walls of the car.

Freddie, the consummate people person, was not remotely interested in the views. He applied all his baby whiles to the task of engaging their fellow cable car passengers, all sixty one of them, in social intercourse, with a remarkable degree of success, considering the competition. He was destined for a glittering career in politics. He would charm and schmooze his way through the tangled web of intrigue that was international diplomacy, with the greatest of ease, in around twenty-five years' time, but for now the cable car was his oyster.

At the top of Sugarloaf Mountain, Sherlock and the boys spent a further half hour admiring the 360 degree panoramic views, whilst Molly bought drinks and snacks in the cafeteria. Once they had consumed those, they descended once more to the base, where they spent a long time in the nature reserve, admiring the monkeys, the tropical birds and all the lizards that darted about, and also took in the equally spectacular views of the bay.

They decided to catch the bus back to Copacabana, as Freddie and William loved riding the bus in London. It took just half an hour to get back to the hotel, where they found that the Reception were anxious to pass on a frantic message, from Raoul, the centre manager, to ring the centre or Caro, as soon as possible.

Sherlock checked his mobile. It was still on silent, from the day before and he hadn't even felt it vibrate but he had four missed calls and a text. He rang the centre number.

'What's the problem, Raoul?'

'Oh, Mr Holmes, thank you so much for calling back. We are surrounded, inundated, with journalists and photographers. It has been on the news all day, about the baby trafficking ring exposed by you. They all want to interview you and take pictures. You are a hero, Mr Holmes, and very famous!'

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face to Heaven. This was the last thing he wanted or needed. And, if all these journalists found out where they were staying, it would be the end of their holiday at the Palace Hotel. He needed to stop this media circus in its tracks. He hung up from Raoul and rang Caro's number.

'Caro! Who leaked the story?' was his instant demand, when the lady picked up her phone. She held the receiver away from her ear, momentarily, and then replied in a calm voice.

'Unfortunately, it was the grateful father of the baby you stopped from leaving the clinic. Yes, that was his baby. He was able to describe a particularly unique birth mark on the baby's leg. However, we will confirm his identity with the DNA testing before we hand the baby over to him. But in the meantime, he was so beside himself with grief for his deceased wife and relief at finding his baby, he was straight on to the local TV station, who alerted the rest of the press.'

Sherlock was quite furious but Molly could understand the father's point of view.

'But we could use this publicity to our advantage, Sherlock, if you allowed it. If you would be prepared to give them an interview, we could organise a press conference and it would be excellent publicity for the centre. It could increase our profile and lead to a lot more people donating their cash.'

He clenched his fist and pursed his lips, utterly repulsed by the whole idea but, at the same time, he could see the logic of Caro's words. Eventually, he capitulated.

'Alright,' he spat, petulantly. 'Just one interview, at a press conference, then they must leave me and my family in peace. And they must not – under any circumstances – find out where we are staying.'

He had bad memories of the media storm around the trial of Moriarty and, later, when he came back from the dead. He had no desire to go through that again.

'I will make that clear, Sherlock. I don't think you will have the same problems you had in London. These are proper journalists, not paparazzi. It is a hot local story but it won't even make the national news, let alone the international news agencies. You will be fine.'

Sherlock cut off the call and turned to Molly. She already had the gist of the conversation, having heard what both Raoul and Caro had said, through the speaker on the mobile phone. She stroked his arm, soothingly, then took his hand and led him to the lift. The hotel lobby was not the best place for him to come to terms with this invasion of their privacy. She manoeuvred him and the boys into the elevator, which whisked them off to the security of their suite.

ooOoo


	21. Loose Ends Chapter 20

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**

As the lift doors closed, Sherlock shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He didn't quite understand why the sudden news of press attention had caused this panic reaction but he knew, for the boys' sakes if nothing else, he needed to get this under control. He took a leaf from William's book and began to create a randomized algorithm for a programme he had been considering which would facilitate categorizing the random variables of the ice cream tasting experiment.

By the time the lift doors opened, on their floor, his heart rate and breathing had returned to normal and, when he opened his eyes, he smiled, reassuringly, at Molly and the boys. He saw the visible relief on Molly's and William's faces. Even Freddie, he noticed, had looked a little concerned but now broke into a broad grin.

'Sorry,' he mumbled but Molly just rubbed his arm and led the way out of the lift, across the landing and opened the door to their suite.

First order of the afternoon was to put on the kettle and make a nice cup of tea. Tea was the panacea, the cure-all, the saviour of the moment. The boys settled down with their respective activities – Freddie on the rug with his toys and William on the sofa with Sherlock's tablet. Sherlock went out onto the balcony, to sort out his head, and Molly made the tea.

When she brought the two mugs of tea outside, he took his gratefully and put an arm round her shoulder.

'Better now?' she asked.

'Yes, thanks,' he replied. 'It was just the surprise of it all. You know, the press and I do not mix well. The character assassination that went on, after The Fall, just made it so much more difficult for all of you left behind, especially John. It made it so much harder to stay dead, knowing what he and you and Lestrade and even Mrs Hudson had to contend with. And they dragged it all up again, when I came back, and then again, when I went AWOL.'

'As John so rightly said, eventually, they turn and when they turn, they do it with a vengeance. I don't want them besieging this place. It's bad enough they are camped outside the Centre but it, at least, could use the publicity. We neither need it nor want it. I don't know about you, but this is the most relaxed I have felt for months. I don't want it to be spoiled.'

Molly slipped her free arm around his waist and pulled him closer.

'One interview – where ever Caro arranges it – and then back to normal,' she reassured him and they stood together, sipping tea and gazing at the view.

ooOoo

They took the boys down to the restaurant for an early supper, before it got too busy and had just returned to the sitting room when the landline rang. It was Caro.

'The press conference has been arranged for tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, at the headquarters of the _Polícia Federal _on _Avenida Rodrigues Alves_. Because this is white collar and also organised crime, it comes under the jurisdiction of the Federal Police. It was one of their SWAT teams who raided the clinic last night.'

'The panel will consist of the _delegados_ - which is the Brazilian equivalent of the local Commissioner of Police, in the UK - a representative of the Ministry of Justice, myself and yourself. The panel will be chaired by a representative of the Ministry of Cities.'

'The members of the press will be present by invitation, so there won't be any paparazzi. You don't have to answer any questions you are not comfortable with – just say 'next question' and the chairperson will move to the next journalist. We will send a car for you, in the morning and it will return you to your hotel after the press conference. If anyone attempts to follow, they will be intercepted. Are you happy with the arrangements?'

Sherlock was momentarily speechless but eventually found his voice.

'Yes. Thank you. You have been most…..thorough,' he replied.

'Good,' came Caro's response, in a very warm voice. 'I would not wish it to be any other way, Sherlock. You and your lovely family are very dear to me.'

He was silent again, for a moment, and then said,

'Thank you. You are very dear to us, too.'

The call ended with Caro explaining that the car would collect him at eight thirty, in the morning, so that the panel would have time to discuss the format and the general topic areas of the conference. Sherlock hung up and then explained the gist to Molly. She was grateful to Caro for putting Sherlock's mind, at least partially, at ease over the press conference. It would still be difficult – she remembered how hard it had been for her and John, on that occasion – but he would cope. She knew he would.

ooOoo

After the boys were put to bed, Molly and Sherlock reclined together on the lounger, out on the balcony, sipping a glass each of Brazilian red wine and listening to the sound of the ocean and of the late loiterers, playing beach volleyball and dancing to samba music. They were too high up for it to disturb their peace but it made an interesting back ground sound.

Molly rested against Sherlock's chest, as she relaxed in the circle of his arm, on the narrow sun lounger.

'Have we really been here for less than two weeks?' Molly asked, rhetorically.

'It has been somewhat action-packed, has it not? I suppose, we did say it would be a working holiday. And the boys have had some nice days out.'

'So have we, haven't we?' Molly queried.

'Of course! I was just thinking of the boys, that's all,' he replied.

'And we've had fun too,' Molly remarked and then giggled, naughtily.

'Molly Hooper, you are incorrigible! When did you get to be such a nymphomaniac?' he declared.

Molly gasped, sat up and turned to look at him – seeing the humour in his eyes, despite the serious face, which he wore as a mask.

'Me, a nymphomaniac? Me?' she protested. 'You are the one who can't resist me. Is it my fault I'm so alluring?'

'Don't kid yourself, sister. I just feel sorry for you, you poor desperate housewife!'

'Oh my God! The ego of the man! I could have any man I choose. I am a siren. All I have to do is look at a man and he falls at my feet.'

'That's because, usually, they're dead. You are a pathologist, after all. I don't think that counts as seduction.'

'Oh, ha, ha! Aren't you the comedian, all of a sudden!' she retorted, suppressing a smile. If he was making jokes, he must be feeling better about the press conference, in the morning. She settled back against him.

'Speaking of sex,' he began. She waited for him to continue.

'Which we were…..' he paused again.

'Yes?' she urged him to continue.

'Do you think we should ease off a bit?'

She sat up and turned to him again, so she could read his facial expression. He looked a bit sheepish.

'Perhaps,' she conceded. 'Any particular reason?'

'Well, your fertile phase is a week away, right?'

'Pretty much. Six days, to be precise.'

'Yes, well, we have used quite a bit of live ammunition, on exercises, lately. It would be a shame to go into battle firing blanks, when we have a genuine target to aim at.'

Molly suppressed a giggle.

'What?' he asked, rather ruffled.

'What's with all the military analogies? You sound like a drill sergeant!'

'Really? I thought I was being quite…..discreet.' He looked a bit hurt.

She leaned forward and gave him a gentle hug.

'You were, baby, very discreet. And you are right. In fact, I was just thinking something similar this morning. We need to keep the crack troops for the main event, the big push, the grand offensive.'

'Are you taking the piss?' he asked, giving her a pained look which only succeeded in making her giggle some more.

'I can see I won't get any sense out of you this evening. How much have you had to drink?' he asked, in mock disapproval.

'Hey, Pot! Kettle here!' she squeaked.

'This is my first glass,' he retorted.

'Mine, too, Mr Grumpy,' she teased. 'Still, being serious for a moment, are we saying that we are going to try for another baby?'

'I thought we'd already agreed that we would?' he replied, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

'We talked about it but we didn't say for definite.'

'Didn't we? Well, I'm definite. I say let's do it.'

Molly snuggled up to him and rested her forehead against his cheek.

'Have I told you recently how much I love you?' she murmured.

'Erm…..no, I don't think you have,' he murmured back.

'I love you lots,' she sighed and kissed him on the cheek.

'Thank you. That's very kind.'

'And do you love me?'

'Of course I do.'

'How much do you love me?'

'Lots.'

'Really?'

'No, I just said that, that's all.'

'Did you?'

'What?'

'Just say it?'

'No, of course not.'

'So, you do love me?'

'Yes.'

'Lots?'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

There was a pause, as they were each lost in their own thoughts, then he said,

'Shall we go to bed?'

'To sleep?'

'Not necessarily.'

'Really?'

'There is more than one way to skin a cat.'

'And save the live rounds for High Noon?

'You can go off people, you know.'

ooOoo

Sherlock was up, showered, shaved and dressed, sipping a cup of black coffee, when Reception called to say his car had arrived. He kissed Molly and the boys and took the lift to the hotel foyer, where he was met by a man in a dark suit and dark glasses. Sherlock could see, by the cut of his jacket, that he was wearing a concealed weapon, under his left arm.

The man showed his ID, which named him as _Agente de Polícia Federal _Leandro Esteves. He led Sherlock to a second lift which took them to the underground car park. Waiting there was a government staff car, with tinted windows. Agent Esteves opened the rear passenger door and Sherlock got inside. He then sat in the seat next to the driver and the car left the car park, for the Federal Police headquarters.

On arrival at the HQ building, it passed through a check point and entered another underground car park. When it came to a halt, the agent got out and opened Sherlock's door. He got out and followed the other man into a lift, that took them up several floors. When the lift stopped, they stepped out into a spacious, light, modern, open plan office area. Through the mainly glass walls, Sherlock could see out over the 'downtown' area of Rio.

He was led through the office space, along a short corridor and into a meeting room, in the centre of which was an oval, teak table. Waiting there was Caro and a man, standing next to a side board which was laid with coffee jugs, cups and saucers. As Sherlock entered the room, Caro smiled and gestured to him to come over. The agent stood by the door, impassively.

'Help yourself to coffee, Sherlock, dear,' she invited, so he did, then turned towards the man, as Caro introduced them.

This is Gustavo Oliviera, a senior representative of the Ministry of Cities. He will be chairing the press conference.' Caro spoke in Portuguese and Sherlock reciprocated, as he shook hands with Sr. Oliviera.

'I will only answer questions about the baby trafficking and the Centre. I will not answer any personal questions or anything related to my life outside of the Centre.'

'Sr. Holmes, I will not permit any such questions, rest assured. And I will inform the members of the press, before the conference begins, that no unrelated questions will be accepted.'

Sherlock hoped the members of the press took this to heart.

The rest of the panel arrived and introductions were made.

The _delegados_, João Vitor Diaz, was a short, rather rotund man, who reminded Sherlock of Jabba the Hutt, which was rather ironic, since Jabba was an organised crime boss and this man was a police commissioner. The consulting detective chose to keep this small observation to himself, since he did not think the man would be impressed with the comparison and he had promised Molly he would try not to upset anyone, unnecessarily.

Senhora Rafaela Alvarez, the representative of the Ministry of Justice, was a tall, stately lady, who had clearly spent a great deal of time, this morning, in Hair and Makeup, was immaculately dressed and, Sherlock observed, wearing Baccarat Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes. Politicians must be well paid in Brazil, he mused.

Having all assembled, they took their places at the oval table, to discuss the structure and content of the press conference. Sr Diaz had a statement to read out, outlining the details of the raid and the nature of the investigation into the clinic. It was decided that he would speak first – after a brief introduction by Sr Oliviera – followed by Senhora Alvarez, who would explain the possible consequences for anyone found guilty of baby trafficking. Caro would go next and explain the involvement of the Children's Centre and, finally, Sherlock would explain his part in the business. The press would then be invited to ask questions of the members of the panel.

Having decided on this format and the general areas to be considered legitimate topics for questions, the panel members talked amongst themselves, waiting for the call to enter the conference room.

Senhora Alvarez, who had chosen the seat next to Sherlock, at the table, leaned toward him, as if to speak, and placed a hand on his arm. Even through his jacket and sheet sleeves, her touch made his skin crawl. She reminded him so much of Irene – that same self-possessed elegance, that same barely restrained sensuality. Sherlock turned to her, even as he pushed his chair away from the table.

'Excuse me,' he said, with ill-disguised disdain, and stood up. He walked over to Agent Esteves and said, quietly,

'I wish to use the bathroom. Can you show me where it is, please?'

The other man nodded and led Sherlock out of the room, around a few corners and to a Gents toilet. He thanked the other man and went inside. Esteves stayed outside and stood, barring the door.

Sherlock used the urinal and went to wash his hands. Looking at his face in the mirror, above the row of basins, he thought he looked pale. Little wonder after being accosted by that vamp, back there. A voice of reason told him that she had only intended to make conversation but she had invaded his personal space and it had freaked him out. The perfume was probably at least partly to blame, he admitted. Irene used that perfume.

He splashed water on his face and dried it with one of the soft terry hand towels provided, straightened his collar and jacket, checked his rear profile in the mirror and walked to the bathroom door. Esteves was waiting.

'They are ready for you,' he said, succinctly.

Sherlock returned to the meeting room and they were all escorted from there, into a lift and down two floors, by an assistant floor manager, wearing a head phone over one ear, with a microphone attached. They entered the large room, where the conference would take place, and were faced by a packed audience. The rows upon rows of chairs were all occupied and many of the occupants had hand-held recording devices or cameras – in some instances, both.

Along the back of the room was a battery of TV cameras, on tripods, all attended by at least one camera person, mostly men but one a woman. Another half dozen or so individuals were carrying lighter cameras on their shoulders, nonchalantly, as though they weighed nothing at all, though Sherlock was prepared to bet this was far from the case.

Down the sides of the block of chairs were more photographers, each with three or four cameras slung around their necks and over their shoulders, sporting a variety of lenses. To Sherlock, they all looked like offensive weapons and he felt very exposed and vulnerable.

The panel were being shown to their respective seats, at the top table, by the assistant floor manager and, much to his relief, Sherlock found himself seated between Caro and Jabba the Hutt, aka Sr Diaz. As they all took their seats, the assembled members of the Fourth Estate ceased their conversations and silence fell upon the crowd – all except for the combined whirring of several movie cameras.

Gustavo Oliviera cleared his throat and opened proceeding by explaining why they were all there and introducing the panel members. When he came to Sherlock, he simply said,

'Sr Sherlock Holmes, the Founder and principal benefactor of the Rocky Foundation Children's Centre, here in Rio de Janeiro.'

He went on to advise that no questions unrelated to the baby trafficking incident would be taken.

He then introduced the first speaker, João Vitor Diaz, whom all the members of the press recognised as the local _delegados_. He read out his statement, explaining that the Federal Police had been alerted to a possible baby trafficking ring, based at the St Winifred's Clinic. He described arriving there and finding several mothers and even more babies, including one that was about to be removed and taken to its 'adoptive' parents. He told how the staff who were present were arrested and were currently being interviewed and how the mothers and babies were being taken care of, at the expense of the state.

Oliviero then invited Senhora Alvarez to explain the law, with relation to such crimes, were the persons in custody to be found guilty, and she also went on to give an account of steps that had been taken by the current government to crack down on organised crime – which included drug trafficking, human trafficking and, of course, baby trafficking.

Next, Caro spoke and, firstly, explained about the Rocky Foundation and its aims and the Centre and its function. Secondly, she related how the pregnant woman, Teresa, had come to the Centre, on Saturday, in labour, needing help, had subsequently given birth, been checked over by the Centre doctor and taken home. She went on to detail how her husband had come back on the Tuesday, demanding to know where his wife and baby were, and how Sherlock had offered to help him find them.

Sherlock took up the story and explained his efforts to locate St Winifred's Clinic, how he and a colleague had observed the coming and going of a large number of pregnant women, in a relatively short period of time; how Teresa had been found dead and her baby missing; how he had suspected that this was a baby trafficking operation and had called in the Federal Police. Finally, he described how he and his colleague had prevented Teresa's baby from being taken away from the clinic, before the police arrived. His account was very factual, delivered succinctly, with no reference to the fact that, in the UK, he was known to be a Consulting Detective.

Throughout the entire process, thus far, camera bulbs had flashed and microphones had been thrust forward, to catch every syllable that the speakers uttered, though they had seemed particularly intent on capturing Sherlock's utterances, since he was a foreigner and an exotic one, at that, with his height, pale complexion, chiselled features and perfect Portuguese.

Since all the members of the panel had had their say, Gustavo Oliviero invited questions from the audience. The clamour erupted, instantaneously, as the journalists all yelled at once,

'Sr Holmes! Sr Holmes!'

'Are you the famous Consulting Detective from London?'

'Is it true that you faked your own death?'

'Did you invent Moriarty, the so-called Consulting Criminal?'

'Is it true you escaped form a high security mental institution, where you were being treated for PTSD, and threatened to jump off a bridge into the sea in Scotland?'

'Are you married, Sr Holmes?'

'Have you ever been to Brazil before? If, so when and for what purpose?'

'Why did you choose to establish a centre for Street Children in Rio?'

'What do you know about the death of the famous assassin, The Little Demon?'

'Are you a secret agent, Sr Holmes, undercover, working for the British Government?'

'Who are you really, Sr Holmes?'

These questions were all shouted at the same time and repeated again and again. The room was in chaos. Sr Oliviero stood up and shouted for everyone to be quiet, waving his arms to try to regain control and re-establish order but the pack were baying, in full cry, and there was no stopping them.

Sherlock sat, pinned to his seat by the onslaught of shouts and accusations. This was just what he had feared would happen. His pale face blanched still further and his hands gripped the edge of the table as he fought the urge to get up and run out of the room, to escape the noise and all the flashing bulbs, as the cameras strobed, continuously.

The next moment, Agent Esteves was beside him, pulling him up by a hand under his shoulder and pushing him toward the exit. He went willingly, grateful beyond measure to be leaving that hell hole of noise and flashing lights and the hounds baying for blood – his blood. Once outside the door, in the corridor, Esteves continued to push him along to the lift and pressed the call button. As they waited for the lift to arrive, Sherlock held up his hands and said,

'I'm OK. You can let go now, thank you.'

Agent Esteves released his hold on the Consulting Detective and Sherlock offered the man his hand, which he took and they shook – in Sherlock's case, in more ways than one. He was trembling from the adrenalin coursing through him. But he was immeasurably grateful to the Federal Agent for his prompt and effective action.

'Thank you for that, Esteves,' he declared, with deep sincerity.

'Simply following orders, senhor,' the agent replied. 'Senhora Lyons de Sousa was very specific in her instructions. She said that if there was any trouble whatsoever, anything out of the ordinary, I was to remove you from the situation – whether here or at any point travelling to or from this place.'

'Well, you followed your orders well and I am very grateful to you,' Sherlock replied.

By this time, they had entered the lift and it had travelled down to the basement car park. When the doors opened, the car was waiting right outside. Someone, probably Caro, had instructed the driver to meet them there. Esteves opened the back passenger door for Sherlock, who slid inside. Having closed that door, the agent went round to the other side of the vehicle and climbed in, next to Sherlock this time, and the car was driven out onto the street.

The driver took a very devious route back to the hotel and Esteves checked repeatedly to make sure they were not being followed. When eventually – almost an hour later – the car drove into the underground car park of the Palace Hotel, Sherlock felt an enormous sense of both relief and trepidation. How could they continue their holiday, now the local press knew who he was? It would not take long for them to discover where he was staying and he most certainly did not want Molly and the boys hounded in the way he had been hounded in the past.

Esteves escorted him up to the hotel foyer and into the lift which took them to the suite on the top floor. As Sherlock used his card key to let himself in, the agent turned to stand next to the door and folded his arms – his 'on guard' position. The detective gave him a questioning look.

'I will be relieved, presently, and someone else will take over from me. Do not be concerned, Sr Holmes. We will take care that nothing happens to you or your family.'

Sherlock thanked him again and entered the suite, closing the door. He wished he could be as confident about that as Esteves was but past experience had taught him that things rarely went so according to plan.

ooOoo


	22. Loose Ends Chapter 21

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty One**

Sherlock turned away from the door and was halted by the sight of Molly, rushing toward him, across the rug, to throw her arms around him and hold him tight.

Oh, my god, darling, are you alright? Are you OK? Are you?'

'Yes, Molly, I'm OK, really, I'm alright.'

She still hugged him tight, pressing her cheek to his chest, splaying her hands on his back, covering as much of his body as she could, with her much smaller frame, in her attempt to wrap him in a protective cocoon. He closed his eyes and absorbed the hug, appreciative of the sense of comfort and security he felt in her embrace.

'Where are the boys?' he asked, suddenly aware that they were not in the room. It broke the spell and Molly loosened her hold on him, looking up into his puzzled face.

'I told them to stay in their bedroom,' she replied.

He was still puzzled.

'Caro called. She explained what happened. We were by the pool. She advised me to bring the boys back up here and keep them away from the windows, just in case.'

Sherlock turned away from her, with an expression close to despair, and walked to the sofa, sitting down heavily and putting one hand to his mouth. Molly followed and perched on the edge of the sofa, beside him, taking his other hand in both of hers.

'I knew I should never have agreed to this. Now they know who I am and everyone knows what I look like, they won't stop until they find us. They have been digging and speculating. They wanted to know if I'd been in Rio before. They asked about the Little Demon. It was as though they know something. And if they do, what do they know and how do they know it?'

'Shush, shush,' Molly soothed. 'Caro feels really bad. She feels responsible for pushing you into speaking to the press. She wants us to go and stay with her until this all blows over. She said she would send her car for us, this afternoon. We would be safe there, away from prying eyes and telephoto lenses. She really wants us to go.'

Sherlock could see the logic of that solution but it irked him that it was even necessary to consider it. He rubbed his face, then clenched his fist and thumped the arm of the sofa but he knew that having a tantrum was not going to solve anything. He looked back at Molly's concerned face and brushed her cheek with his hand.

'OK, let's do that. We can't keep the boys penned up in this suite all day long and day trips will be out of the question for a while. At least at Caro's and Henrique's, they will be able to run about. And they will have a pool. Yes, call her back and ask her to send the car.'

ooOoo

An hour later, having packed enough clothes and other essential items for a week, the family were escorted down to the basement car park by another Federal Agent, who sat next to the driver but kept a wary eye out for any tails, throughout the drive to Caro's private home, out in the sticks. It was with a sense of great relief that Molly saw the electric gates open to admit the vehicle and close behind them. She felt she had been holding her breath and could now breathe freely again.

Caro came out to greet them, as they drew up in front of the main entrance. Her man servant, Giorgio, was there, too, to help with the luggage and show them to their rooms. Caro had given them a suite at the rear of the house, overlooking the garden, which was private and secluded, hidden from prying eyes.

The boys' room, decorated and furnished in a practical modern style, had two single beds and its own bath room. Right next door, Sherlock and Molly's room was in the Art Deco style, with a large antique bed, inlaid with geometric shapes, a double wardrobe, a tallboy chest of drawers and a dressing table, with matching chair. It also contained a Lloyd Loom sofa, two matching arm chairs, grouped around a Lloyd Loom coffee table with a glass top.

The block wooden floor was dotted with hand-woven rugs, made by indigenous craftsmen. The en suite bath room was also Art Deco in style and contained a huge copper bath, with a shower over, a high-level flush toilet and matching ceramic basin. The colour scheme in both rooms was a calming pale green.

Despite the obvious opulence of the environment, Molly felt instantly at home and secure. The rooms were cosy and homely in a way that the Palace Hotel could never be. This was a real home. The only disadvantage this had, in comparison to the hotel, was that they did not have a private communal space here, where they could all be together as a family. She would miss that. However, as Giorgio placed their bags on the bed, she smiled her thanks and he nodded an acknowledgement and left the room.

Sherlock stood just inside the door, holding Freddie on his arm, with William holding his free hand. As ever, with a sudden change of circumstances, William needed the reassurance of his father's presence. He would be Sherlock's shadow for a day or two, until he adjusted to the new environment. Molly was about to suggest that Sherlock take the boys outside to play in the garden, while she unpacked their luggage, when a maid tapped at the door and announced that tea would be served in the afternoon drawing room – the room that led into the garden. The family had taken a rather nervous lunch, in their sitting room at the Palace, to avoid unwanted attention, and none of them had eaten at all well so they were more than ready to take tea in the parlour.

Caro greeted them as they entered the room and they all sat round the coffee table which positively groaned under the weight of cucumber and salmon sandwiches – cut into triangles, with the crusts removed – and freshly baked scones, with cream and jam, and three pots of different types of tea.

'I may be several thousand miles from home but I still enjoy the English tradition of Afternoon Tea,' Caro declared.

To Sherlock, it was a stark reminder of his own childhood, which was rapidly undergoing a re-evaluation in his mind, based on the revelations provided by Caro herself. He sat on the sofa, staring at the loaded table but not really seeing it – or rather seeing ones like it, in other times and other places – as memories replayed, on the HD screen in his head, of awkward silences, rebukes and remonstrances. He saw them now in a different light, filtered through his mother's perspective. And he felt so sad for her, being faced on a daily basis with the physical evidence of one's own debasement, and being expected to nurture and care for that product of depravity.

Without a word, he got up and walked out, through the French doors, into the garden. William went to follow him but Molly put a hand on his arm.

'Daddy needs to be on his own for a while, Will,' she explained, with a regretful smile. 'He'll be back soon, don't worry. You eat your sandwiches and drink your milk and then you can have a nice big scone, just like you have at Uncle Mycroft's house.'

Normally, any reference to Uncle Mycroft brought a smile to William's face but Molly had noticed, recently, that William did not seem so enthusiastic where his favourite uncle was concerned. She couldn't quite put her finger on when this change occurred – perhaps it had been quite gradual – but she made a mental note to speak to her son on the subject.

His similarity to Sherlock, when it came to bottling things up and brooding over them, was a bit frightening at times and Molly was determined to encourage him to talk about his feelings rather than suffering in silence. The last thing this world needed was another Holmes with the emotional maturity of a…..thing with no emotional maturity.

Caro was speaking and Molly shook off her reverie and apologised for being 'miles away.'

'Oh, please, don't feel the need to apologise for anything, Molly, my dear. It is I who should apologise. I had no idea things would turn out so badly. Those journalists were hand-picked. I can't imagine what got into them. If I didn't know better, I would think someone deliberately put them up to it. They certainly seemed to have a lot of information about things that even I didn't know about.' The older lady was genuinely distressed by the whole incident.

'Is he alright?' she asked, surreptitiously, trying not to cause William to fret but indicating the absent parent, with a tilt of her head in the direction of the garden.

'He will be. He does this when things need sorting out, in his head. He goes somewhere quiet and mulls everything over. That's how his Mind Palace works. He categorizes everything and files it away so he knows where to find it. Then he can go back and look at it again, any time he needs to. He's still coming to terms with the Violet thing and the Irene thing and the Rocky thing. That's a lot of things to be coming to terms with, all at the same time.' Molly smiled, apologetically, and gave a little shrug.

'Oh Freddie, you're supposed to eat the scone, not wear it!' she exclaimed, when she noticed that her youngest son had more jam and cream on his face and hands than had ever seemed to be on the table. Grabbing a couple of fine linen napkins, she began to dab and wipe at Freddie's face and hands, which he interpreted as the best game ever and began to chuckle, irrepressibly.

'You are such a little scallywag, Freddie George Hooper Holmes,' Molly reprimanded, using his full name to show she meant business.

When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, Caro suggested they all go outside and enjoy the open space and the Jungle Gym. Once outside, William went straight for the climbing frame and took up his position in the crow's nest, right at the top. He liked high places. He had no fear of them. He enjoyed being able to see everything that was going on around him.

From his vantage point, William looked around to check if he could see his father. There were a lot of trees, dotted about, and the garden sloped upwards, from the house, to the brow of a small hill, where there was a group of trees, growing close together, to form a sort of copse. William had a feeling that his daddy would be in those trees.

If William wanted to be alone, he would choose the trees, so he assumed Daddy would, too. That would be a good place to go, because no one would know he was there. The little boy felt more secure, knowing that his father was there, even though he couldn't see him. He sat up in his crow's nest, watching the trees and waiting for Sherlock to emerge.

ooOoo

Sherlock was in the trees, sitting on the ground, leaning against the trunk of a sturdy Copaifera tree, a species native to Brazil and one of a number growing in the grounds of the colonial property that was Caro's home, a remnant of the forest that had previously covered this land. He was in his Mind Palace, in a room he had recently created, a room dedicated to his mother.

He had furnished it with all the things he associated with her, from his memory, including her extensive wardrobe, her antique bed, her dressing table and her chest of drawers. But he had added some features from the photographs that the private detective had taken – the bedspread and curtains from the hotel room, an oil painting of the woodland, with the lovers leaning against the tree, lost in a passionate embrace.

He was talking to the Violet from those photos – the young, vibrant, happy Violet. She was sitting on the bed and he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, next to the chest of drawers – close enough to read her facial expressions but not so close as to touch. The conversation had been awkward, to begin with and all one-sided, from him to her but, gradually, she had started to respond, to open up and to answer his questions.

'How did you survive, all those years?'

'I didn't. I died a little more every day. Every day, there was a little less of Violet Vernet and a little more of Violet Holmes, until it came to the point when I looked in the mirror and didn't even know that person who stared back at me. If you wish to talk about survival, look to yourself. You could write the book. I would challenge anyone to grow up in an environment so completely devoid of any sort of love and yet retain the capacity to love and be loved, as you have done. No, I went down with the ship long before I went down in the aeroplane.'

'So why did you stay?'

'Where could I go? I couldn't go back to my parents' home. No Vernet had ever divorced. It just wasn't done. And, anyway, I didn't know any other way to live. All my life, I had been groomed for the role of wife and mother, society hostess, party planner, committee member, charity organiser. I didn't have any friends, not real friends, but I had many acquaintances and I had a certain social standing and a place in society. And I had a good standard of living. I couldn't give that up.'

'And Mycroft, you had him.'

'Yes, I had Mycroft – though not for long. As soon as he turned thirteen, he seemed to become a little miniature version of his father. He learned pomposity from his father, that's for sure, and how to be cold and devious. I would like to believe he still had a bit of me in him – a soft centre – though, if he did, it was well hidden, well-disguised. He was so restrained, so buttoned up. I never really knew what he was thinking or feeling, once he went off to Eton.'

'Did you know what I was thinking and feeling?'

'Oh, always! Your feelings showed in your eyes, if not on your face. Your eyes used to change colour with your mood – literally, not metaphorically. When you were happy or content, which wasn't very often, they would be a soft green colour. When you were angry, they would be a cold, hard blue and when you were sad, they would be grey – like the sea in winter. I could always read you from your eyes.'

'Did you really hate me?'

'At first, yes, I can't deny it. You were like a curse. I was Odette and Randolph was Rothbart. But I also admired you. You were so fearless! Of all the emotions I saw in in your eyes, I never saw fear. Oh, my goodness! The things you used to say! That day you outed one of your father's affairs at the dinner table! I hope you noticed that it wasn't I who sent you to your room! I was cheering, inside. I almost came up to the Nursery and hugged you! But that would have meant I had to touch you. And I wasn't ready to do that, not then. And by the time I was ready, you were beyond touching. Isn't that the way it goes? I never was very good with timing.'

Then she surprised him - she asked a question of her own.

'Have you forgiven me or are some things impossible to forgive?'

He had to think long and hard before he could answer.

'I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive you, not completely. I have children of my own, now, and – no matter how they came about – I don't think I could reject them as emphatically as you did me. But I appreciate it might be different for a woman, who has nurtured that child for nine months, hoping that it would be one thing and then finding it was the complete opposite. However, I do understand why you did what you did and I don't blame you, any more. Is that enough?'

'For now, it is, yes, and far more than I deserve. Thank you, Sherlock.'

Something dropped onto his shoulder, from the canopy of the tree above, ran down his arm, paused on his hand and then scurried away, into the undergrowth. It brought him out of his self-induced trance and he saw that it was getting dark. He pushed himself upright, picked up his jacket, which he had been sitting on, threw it over his shoulder and set off, walking, back down the hill. Lights were on in the big house, casting a warm glow over its immediate surroundings. It looked warm and cosy inside, far more so than his own family home had or ever could look. It looked like a house full of love.

He entered via the open French doors and was about to walk through, to the main house, when he spotted a figure, sitting quietly, patiently, on the sofa, where tea had previously been served. He crossed the floor and went down on one knee in front of her. Reaching out, Molly placed a gentle hand on his cheek. He enfolded her in his arms and they each laid their head on the other's shoulder. No words were spoken but, despite this, an infinite number of thoughts and feelings were exchanged.

ooOoo


	23. Loose Ends Chapter 22

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

Sherlock and Molly, both exhausted from the unexpected turn of events that day, retired early to bed. Caro was a singularly undemanding host and had urged them to treat her home as their own. She had also advised them that there was no need to dress for breakfast, since she and Henrique would be out of the house by seven a.m., so the staff would serve them at their leisure and they could be as informal as they wished.

However, it seemed their heads had barely touched the pillows before a sudden and alarming noise brought them both instantly awake. It was the sound of William screaming.

Sherlock was out of bed and out of the room before Molly could even move. She untangled herself from the duvet and followed, not far behind. When she entered the boys' bedroom, she found Sherlock standing by William's bed, hugging the sobbing boy to his chest. Freddie was still sound asleep, oblivious to the distress of his older brother. Sherlock carried William out of the room, to make sure he stayed that way.

Back in the master bedroom, he sat on the wicker sofa, with William pressing his face into his shoulder, clinging to him with one arm wrapped tightly round his neck. Molly stood nearby, feeling a little helpless but wholly confident that her oldest son was in the best of hands. She decided, in order to keep busy and do something useful, to go to the kitchen and make them both a cup of tea. It would also give Sherlock time to sooth and calm William and try to ascertain what had caused the fright.

As Sherlock rocked and shushed his son, the little boy's hiccupping sobs began to subside until, though still giving the occasional convulsing shudder, he was able to release his strangle hold on his father's neck and sit in his lap, encircled by Sherlock's arm and pressed to his torso. Daddy reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and used it to dab at the tears and wipe away the mucus that had poured from William's nose.

Now he had control of his voice, the little boy was very forthcoming about the cause of his distress.

'I lost you, Daddy! I couldn't find you in the wood. Where were you?'

'I'm so sorry, little man. I was in the wood. I didn't know you were looking for me or I would have come straight away. But I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere.'

'Don't go anywhere, Daddy. I don't like it when you go away. I want you to stay here with us.'

'I won't go away. I promise to stay here until you feel better. And then, if I have to go anywhere, I'll make sure you know where I am and when I'll be back. Is that OK?'

William gave that due consideration and then nodded but showed no sign of being ready to relinquish his father's lap and return to bed.

Molly came back with the tea and a glass of warm milk for William. She sat in one of the arm chairs and patted the child's leg, as he sat up on Sherlock's knee, drinking his milk. She hadn't had the opportunity to ask William if anything was bothering him, especially with regard to Uncle Mycroft, and now was really not the time to bring that up, but it was clear that all the upheaval had been too much for the little boy who depended so much on order, routine and knowing what was going to happen next.

She and Sherlock drank their tea and William explained how he knew that his father was in the wood. Sherlock told him how clever he was to deduce his whereabouts so accurately and told him he would take him to the very spot, where he had been all along, the very next day so that, even in his dreams, he would know where to find him. The child's eyelids were beginning to droop and Sherlock asked him if he was ready to go back to bed. The boy nodded his assent so his father carried him back to the room next door and put him into bed, kissed him on the forehead and pulled the duvet round his shoulders. Leaving both bedroom doors open, he returned to his own bed and curled around Molly, who had already crawled back under the lightweight summer duvet.

'That was selfish of me, to go off like that. I should have known better,' he self-admonished, bitterly.

'No one could have predicted what happened today, darling, so don't go taking all the blame. We'll get through this – like we always do – and we'll do it together, as a family. William will be fine. He won't be scarred for life by one bad dream.' Molly reached behind her and draped an arm over Sherlock's hip.

'We'll have a nice family day, tomorrow, settle everyone down and then we'll be fighting fit again, you'll see.'

He responded by burying his face in her hair and exhaled a long slow breath, to release his own tension. She could always see through to the nub of the matter and be relied upon to find a workable solution. Molly was one of life's born facilitators, a fixer of rare ability and he was so very lucky to have her.

ooOoo

Next morning, William seemed none the worse for his nocturnal disturbances. The family wandered into the breakfast room at eight o'clock – Molly and Sherlock in their dressing gowns and the boys wearing their onesies – and the staff bustled around, providing them with scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and toast, milk for the boys, coffee for the grown-ups and fresh fruit juice for everyone. And Sherlock was delighted to find there was an English newspaper, the Guardian.

He was less delighted when he saw the small headline, half way down the fifth page, reporting on the sentencing hearing for one Miss Irene Adler. His brows knit together, when he spotted the name, in the heavy type, at the top of the short article. They furrowed still more when he read the body of the piece. He uttered a grunt of disgust and, folding the paper to pinpoint the salient portion, he passed it to Molly.

She took it, with a feeling of apprehension, not knowing what to expect and, having read it once, read it again, to see if she had made a mistake. She looked at Sherlock and held the paper out toward him but he shook his head and waved a hand so she tossed it onto a chair and pursed her lips, wondering what other hammer blows they could expect.

But, over breakfast, Sherlock pushed the news of Irene's suspiciously lucky escape from a long sentence to the back of his mind. He was focused on his children and would not allow that woman to encroach on that - not today. First order of the day was to shower and dress and take William to the wood at the top of the hill, to show him his thinking place.

They left Molly and Freddie, destined for the swimming pool behind the conservatory, and headed up the hill, hand in hand. On reaching the summit, they entered the wood and threaded their way through the trees until they came to the spot, right in the centre of the copse, where Sherlock had sat and entered his Mind Palace to talk to his mother, the day before. He took off his jacket, again, and laid it on the ground then sat, leaning back against the tree, and invited William to come and sit with him.

William sat between his father's thighs and leant back, against his body, as they both listened to the natural sounds around them – birds twittering, the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees and the sound of insects, buzzing and chirruping. After a few moments, Sherlock asked,

'William, would you like to learn how to make a Mind Palace?'

William turned his head to look up at his father and nodded, enthusiastically, giving a big, beaming smile.

'OK. Just lean back and relax and close your eyes.'

William did as he was bid and Sherlock waited until he felt all the tension seep out of his son's body. He then began to speak, very quietly and slowly, so as not to disturb the atmosphere of calm and relaxation.

'First of all, it doesn't have to be a palace. Your Mind Place can be whatever you want it to be. It could be a house, or a room or even just a cupboard. It only needs to be somewhere you can put things and be able to find them when you need them. What would you like yours to be?'

William did not answer straight away. He was thinking, trying to decide what form his Mind Place would take. Sherlock remained quiet, waiting for him to reply. Eventually, the little boy said,

'My Mind Place is a British clipper ship, with three masts and a crow's nest. It has three decks and a fo'c'sle and lots of cabins.'

'O-Kay, that's a good choice. Right, you need to stand somewhere where you can see as much of the ship as possible. Where are you standing?'

'On the quarter deck, in front of the wheel house.'

'Excellent. Now, think of something you would like to put in your Mind Ship. It can be anything at all. Something you want to remember.'

William went quiet again. Sherlock waited, and waited, and at one point wondered whether the little boy had fallen asleep, he was so quiet and still. But, at last, William spoke.

'Could it be something I don't want to remember, something that I would like to lock away and never have to think about again?'

'It could be. But you still need to remember where you out it, so you don't open the door to where it's hidden, by mistake.'

'That's alright, I'm going to hide it right down in the bowels of the ship, in the brig, behind a locked door with bars instead of a window. I will know it's there but it won't be able to escape.'

'Fine. Do you want to do that now?'

William nodded.

'Whenever you visit your Mind Ship, always start from the same place, on the quarterdeck, in front of the wheelhouse, and then you will always be able to orientate to where you want to go. Are you ready?'

The little boy nodded again.

'Good. Start walking through your ship and keep going until you get to the brig. Let me know, when you get there.'

William started to walk through his Mind Ship – down the steps from the quarterdeck to the main deck, along the main deck to the steps leading down to the lower decks. He went down these steps, then past all the First Class passenger cabins and the Salon until he came to the next set of steps, leading down. This took him to the middle lower deck, the Steerage. This was where the Third Class passengers would be housed, in little stalls, along with the livestock – goats, sheep and chickens.

He walked down the middle of this deck, with the stalls branching off on either side, until he was amidships. There, he came to the third set of stairs, leading down to the bilges. This was the very bottom of the ship, where the cargo and supplies were stored, on pallets stretched across the ribs of the ship, to keep them up out of the water, which came from the many random leaks that sprang during any voyage and swilled around the bottom of the vessel.

William tiptoed along a beam, running fore to aft, to avoid getting his feet wet, until he came to the brig, right at the very rear of the ship. He stood in front of the door, which had a huge keyhole. About a metre from the door, on a hook screwed into one of the ribs of the ship, was a large, iron key.

'I'm here, Daddy,' he said.

'Good. Now, what are you doing? Talk me through it,' Sherlock instructed him.

'I'm taking the key off the hook and unlocking the door. Now the door is open. What should I do now?' the boy asked.

'Take out whatever it is you want to put in there.'

William reached into his head and took out the memory of his nightmare – of running through the wood, looking for his father and not being able to find him because it was dark and the trees were really close together and there was no light coming in, from the moon or the stars. He opened his hand and looked at it. It was small and round and very black, with a rough, grooved surface, like a peach stone, but the edges of the grooves were sharp.

'Do you have it ready?' his father asked.

'Yes, it's ready.'

'OK, put it into the brig.'

William reached inside the brig and placed the small, round object in a little niche, just inside the door.

'Have you put it in?'

'Yes.'

'OK, now you need to close the door and lock it.'

William pushed the heavy door to and turned the key. It gave a very loud, satisfying click.

'Right, it's locked inside and I'm taking the key out of the door and hanging it back on the hook.'

'Good! Well done! Now you can come back to where you started.'

William retraced his steps back through the ship until he stood, once again, on the quarterdeck.

'I'm back on the quarterdeck,' he said.

'Fine. Then open your eyes and you will be back in the wood.'

William opened his eyes and looked around at the trees and the undergrowth and he felt the wind on his face but it no longer smelt of the sea. His face broke into a huge smile and he turned and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck.

'Thank you, Daddy! Now I have a Mind Place, just like you!'

Sherlock chuckled and hugged him back.

'Now, little man, is there anything else that's troubling you?' he asked.

William drew back so that he could look his father in the eye.

'What sort of anything else?' he asked, his brow wrinkling in exactly the same way that Sherlock's did.

'Something to do with Uncle Mycroft?' Molly had tipped him off about her suspicions that morning.

William's mouth turned down at the corners and his top lip all but disappeared, as his eyes looked to the ground.

'You know you can tell me anything, don't you?' Sherlock assured him. 'If something is troubling you, it's always better to talk about it. Mummy tells me that, all the time, and I know I don't always do it but it really is the best thing to do.'

William continued to chew his top lip and look at the ground but, at last, he drew a sharp breath and replied.

'I don't think Uncle Mycroft wants to know me any more.'

Sherlock was quite stunned by this statement, spoken with such candour and absolute belief. He held his tongue, biting back the flat denial, which he knew would only succeed in stifling William's willingness to speak his mind. Instead, he spoke in a soft, encouraging tone.

'What makes you say that, Will?'

'Well, he used to come to see me every week and I used to stay at his house and go out in the land rover. We used to help the game keeper feed the pheasants, and play with the dogs. He used to give me a bath and read me stories at bed time. But, since he went to America and bought the new babies, he doesn't want to know me any more.'

Sherlock was rather lost for words, at first. He could see the truth of William's statement. Before the twins came along, Mycroft was a regular visitor to the flat in Smithfield and William a frequent visitor to the house in Hertfordshire. Mycroft would pick his nephew up on a Friday evening and return him on Sunday afternoon. He really looked forward to spending time with the little boy, Sherlock knew.

But, after the arrival of Kate and Charlie, Mycroft tended to go home every night, if he could and, although the Hooper-Holmes contingent visited the family home quite often – every weekend, during the time Sherlock was staying there, following the Irene Incident – Mycroft was often busy with his own children and William, who did not cope well with the mayhem that three toddlers could create when they all got together, often took himself off to the library in search of peace and respite.

Sherlock could see how, right under all their noses, William had gradually been eased out of the picture and no one had noticed – not even Molly, who was the most perceptive and empathic person he had ever known. The shock of realisation was such that he could think of nothing to say. He opened and closed his mouth several times, as he gazed into the clear, open, innocent eyes of his son. William looked back, seeing his father's discomfort but not understanding its source. He began to feel that perhaps he had said the wrong thing and his own distress expressed itself in the welling of tears in his eyes. Seeing this cut Sherlock to the quick and he pulled his son into a hug.

'No, no, no, William. Uncle Mycroft loves you just as much as ever. He's been very busy with Kate and Charlie but he doesn't love you any less. Sometimes, grown-ups can take things for granted. We think that everything is still the same, even when it's really very different. We don't always notice when things change. That's why we need people like you to tell us when things aren't right.'

He eased William back an inch or two, so he could look into his eyes again.

'Thank you for telling me how you feel, Will. Uncle Mycroft will be grateful, too, and very sad that he's let you down. We've all let you down, little man, but we will put it right.'

William's expression was rather dubious.

'Do you trust me, William,' Sherlock asked.

''Yes, Daddy,' the child replied, unequivocally.

'Then, I promise you that I will put this right, OK?'

'Yes, Daddy!' William replied, smiling and nodding, enthusiastically.

ooOoo


	24. Loose Ends Chapter 23

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

It was a much perkier William who came down the hill, pell-mell, from the little wood and ran straight to the Jungle Gym, climbed up to the crow's nest platform at the top and 'crowed' like the Lost Boys in 'Peter Pan'. Sherlock, coming down the slope at a more sedate pace, followed him up the climbing frame, right to the top, and joined in the crowing, with enthusiasm. He experienced a vivid recollection of doing this self-same thing with Mycroft, when he was about William's age and his big brother was his idol. In their case, they had climbed one of the trees in the park – an elm tree which had subsequently been lost to Dutch elm disease and never replaced, leaving a gaping hole in the Capability Brown landscape.

It was a bitter-sweet memory. Not long after this, the elder Holmes boy had gone away to Eton and, subsequently, abandoned his little brother to his lonely fate. Sherlock now knew that he was not the only member of the family who felt the loss of Mycroft, at that time, but the two bereft individuals could not find comfort in one another because of their shared past. How tragic, he thought. Sherlock crowed long and loud, in baritone counterpoint to William's falsetto cries, and then they both collapsed in a chuckling heap and rolled around with mirth.

ooOoo

Freddie was really progressing, as a water baby. He was now able to control his body very well, in the pool, and Molly did not have to help him stay buoyant. Although he couldn't keep his head above the water when on his stomach, he could float effortlessly on his back, and had learned to alternate between floating on the surface to breathe and moving about underwater, holding his breath. The breath-holding was an autonomic reflex, of course, triggered simply by submerging his face, but his mobility under the water and his balance and control were learned behaviours.

Freddie was completely at ease in this watery environment and it was the one place where he was quiet and thoughtful. The medium seemed to have a calming influence on the younger Hooper-Holmes boy and it was at these times that Molly saw Sherlock's genes come to the fore, as Freddie's similarity to William became apparent. Molly vowed that she would continue to take Freddie swimming when they returned to the UK, because it brought out this different aspect of his character and, also, he enjoyed it so much.

It was while she was shadowing Freddie round the pool, swimming breast-stroke to keep from disturbing the smooth surface of the water, that she spotted Caro, walking out through the conservatory doors. She looked tense. In fact, she looked very concerned. Molly stood upright in the water and scooped Freddie into her arms, in order to climb out and speak with her friend. Freddie was about to protest when he saw the new arrival and switched to schmooze mode.

'Is everything alright?' Molly asked, as she climbed the steps up from the pool, even though she could see that something really was not.

'Molly, dear, is Sherlock about?' their hostess enquired, obviously flustered. It was rather disturbing to see this strong, capable woman in such a state of alarm.

'He's in the garden, with William. Is there a problem?' Molly asked.

'Oh, yes, my dear, I'm afraid there is,' came the reply. It was clear that the lady was not willing to say more – whether because Freddie was there or because Sherlock was not, was not discernable.

Molly wrapped Freddie in a towel and sat on the sun lounger, with him in her lap, rubbing him dry.

'He took William up to the wood, at the top of the hill. They've been gone quite a while but I think Sherlock took his phone. Would you like me to ring him?' Molly asked.

'Ring me about what?' Sherlock's voice enquired, as he strolled out of the conservatory with William trotting alongside.

'Ah, Sherlock, could I have a word?' Caro asked, looking even more uncomfortable, if that were possible.

Sherlock looked at the older woman and then at Molly. She shook her head.

'No, you go, darling. William, you stay with Mummy. Freddie and I were about to go inside for a snack. You can come, too,' she advised her oldest son.

Sherlock shrugged and then gestured for Caro to lead the way and he followed to the study and sat on the sofa, when invited to do so. Caro sat in the arm chair and clasped her hands together, a gesture which betrayed her tension.

'Whatever it is that you have to say, perhaps you should just say it,' Sherlock prompted, looking cool and relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, one hand placed on the arm of the sofa and the other resting on the seat cushion, beside his leg.

Caro took a deep breath and began.

'Rafaela Alvarez wants you brought in for questioning about the death of the assassin, the Little Demon. She wants the interview to be conducted by the State Civil Police, as it is a murder enquiry. However, the _delegados_, Sr. Diaz, insists that his department should handle it, since it would appear that you were working for the British Government, when you were last in Brazil, at the time when the person in question died. Either way, you have been given twenty four hours to present yourself, voluntarily, for questioning or you will be arrested and remanded in custody while they investigate the allegations made against you by the press.'

Sherlock listened to this bald statement and brought one hand up to rub his chin, pensively.

'That would be rather inconvenient,' he replied.

'You have a talent for understatement, Sherlock. This is potentially very serious. For that reason, I have taken the liberty of telephoning your brother.'

He raised an eyebrow and asked,

'What did he have to say?'

'He was unavailable, unfortunately, but I left a message with his PA and she said she would make sure he received it as soon as possible. He was in a Cabinet meeting, apparently.'

Sherlock gave a slight toss of the head, to acknowledge that this was the default position for Mycroft, especially when one really needed him. Despite his calm exterior, internally, he was feeling very vulnerable. He was under no illusion that this was anything but a desperate situation. He was not terribly au fait with the conditions in Brazilian state prisons but he imagined that they were rather unpleasant, not least because they were, no doubt, largely full of drug dealers, gang members and other hard core criminals

In the absence of any comment from him, Caro filled the gap.

'I don't know what you've done to upset Senhora Alvarez but she is really gunning for you. No one else is remotely interested in the allegations made at the press conference but she will not let the subject drop. She is adamant that there must be an investigation. As Minister of Justice, she is really trying to make a point.'

'Well, be that as it may, the inconvenient truth is that I did kill two people – one accidentally and one in self-defence. But, at the time, I was here at the behest of the British Government, working undercover to bring down a master criminal's empire. As such, I should have diplomatic immunity but, if your government was unaware that my government was conducting a covert operation on their sovereign soil, then that could put me in an invidious position.' Sherlock's summary was accurate and succinct. Caro could not fail to be impressed with his coolness under pressure. Violet had much to be proud of, in both her boys.

''Given those circumstances, if Mycroft is unable to get this whole matter dropped – which would be the best case scenario – then it would be a federal matter and should be investigated by Diaz' department,' Caro explained.

'That would work in your favour, since you did hand him a baby trafficking ring on a plate. Unfortunately – and I don't wish you to take this the wrong way – this whole thing could be very bad for the Foundation. As the founder and principal benefactor, if you were arrested and charged with a double murder, or even just one murder, we would have to kiss goodbye to all our additional funding. No one I know would want to be associated with such a scandal.'

Sherlock felt the anger begin to rise in his chest. The more he thought about this new development, the more it felt like a set up. Someone had a vested interest in discrediting him and, by association, the Rocky Foundation and the Children's Centre. He wondered what that person or persons stood to gain from this. His detective sense was buzzing. He put it on the back burner, to percolate away, quietly, and returned his attention to the immediate situation.

'And what about you and Henrique, Caro,' Sherlock asked. 'How would such a scandal affect you?'

She looked at him and smiled, for the first time since arriving home. 'However it affected us, it would make no difference. We are not going to abandon you and your family, Sherlock. You are Violet's son and you are also a very good man. I'm not about to throw you to the wolves – or rather, the bitches, since Senhora Alvarez is involved.'

Sherlock was still unaccustomed to hearing compliments about his character and it felt uncomfortable. His ego had always been invested in his intellect. Any valediction was usually related to his cognitive superiority and he was fine with that – expected it, almost – but to hear someone describe him as 'a good man' sounded dissonant, out of synch, just wrong. He squirmed inside and quickly changed the subject.

'I might have snubbed Senhora Alvarez, at the pre-conference briefing. If she is a proud woman, she may have revenge in mind. She might be playing into the hands of someone with an ulterior motive, by insisting on an investigation.'

'Rafaela is a very vain woman and she likes to be complimented. If you have snubbed her, it would be a very new experience. Most men fall over themselves to flatter her. I suspect she would find that a bit of a challenge rather than cause for revenge. Be that as it may, while we wait for Mycroft to respond, could I suggest we have some lunch?'

ooOoo

Molly was in the Afternoon Drawing Room, with the boys, as they enjoyed a glass of milk and she sipped a cup of mint tea. She was desperate to know what had shaken Caro's equilibrium, so it was with some relief that she heard the approaching voices of Sherlock and their hostess and they sounded relaxed and chatty. As they entered the room, Molly looked up, enquiringly, and caught the miniscule headshake that told her that Sherlock would fill her in later but not now.

'William's been telling me how you showed him how to make a Mind Ship,' she said, brightly.

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

'He didn't need much showing. He did most of it himself,' he declared, proudly, ruffling his son's hair before sitting down on the sofa and draping one arm, languidly, along the back rest.

'Lunch will be ready in about half an hour,' Caro announced. 'Would you two boys like to come and see my aviary? I have some lovely birds that you might like to see.'

'Are they very loud?' William asked, warily.

'No, not at all. I don't have any parrots – there are enough of those in the garden. No, these are song birds, mostly. I have canaries, Zebra finches - which we call Mandarim - Society finches called Manon and Lady Gouldian finches, which we call Diamante-de-gould. Then there's the Tico-tico, _Zonotrichia capensis_, the rufous-collared sparrow, or the beautiful blue Azulão, _Cyanocompsa brisonii _and the ultramarine grosbeak, whose female is brown. I also have a tiny black Tizui male, _Volatina jacarina_, and a blue-black grassquit, which has a white spot on his shoulder. His female is streaked brown.'

William's interest was piqued.

'Why are the females all brown and the males brightly coloured?' he asked.

'Well, shall we go and take a look and then I'll be able to explain better,' Caro suggested.

William looked to his parents for assurance that this was alright and, receiving affirmative nods, he got up and followed Caro out into the garden and round to the left, to where the aviary was situated. Freddie was more than willing to go along and giggled, cheerfully, as Caro lifted him up into her arms and took him away. He even waved goodbye.

'Should we be worried by how willingly he goes off with a relative stranger?' Molly mused. 'Do you think we should get someone to really frighten him, to make him less trusting?'

'It might be something to bear in mind for the future but, for now, I think we should just be grateful for small mercies. Let's think of him as just gregarious and leave it at that.'

Molly moved over to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa and plaited her fingers into his.

'OK, tell me the latest bad news,' she prompted.

He rubbed his chin with his free hand and then repeated back his conversation with Caro, almost word for word.

'Oh, God, darling! They wouldn't put you on trial for murder, would they?' she gasped. This was all getting a bit too serious.

'I think there's more to this than meets the eye. But I don't think we need worry too much. Mycroft is sure to find a solution. He's spent most of my adult life trying to keep me out of trouble of my own making. I don't think he would let anything bad happen. If push came to shove, we could always hide out in the British Consulate General until they could smuggle us out of the country.'

Molly looked at his face, trying to discern whether or not he was being serious. It was impossible to tell. But then he smiled and pulled her into a warm embrace.

'Good Lord, this quiet family holiday is throwing up lots of surprises, isn't it? Had I known it would be this interesting, I would have suggested going on holiday a lot sooner!'

Molly slapped him on the arm but then pressed up against him and leaned her head against his collar bone. He reciprocated by resting his head on hers.

'Did you find out why William is upset with Mycroft, by any chance?' she asked.

'Oh, god, yes,' Sherlock sighed. 'That's going to be an awkward conversation, when we get home.'

ooOoo


	25. Loose Ends Chapter 24

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

Molly was amazed and, frankly, alarmed at Sherlock's apparent lack of concern for his possible imminent arrest and incarceration. His faith in Mycroft's ability to put things right, whilst admirable, was wholly uncharacteristic and, therefore, disturbing. But she reasoned that, after so many recent gob-smacking revelations, his ability to be shocked had reached saturation point and he was no longer able to respond appropriately.

This confused her, initially, but then she realised that it might be a self-preservation reflex, that had kicked in to protect his psyche from complete meltdown. And then, she was glad of it. But she knew she would have to look out for him, as his current state of emotional equilibrium was bordering on euphoria and, consequently, fragile and at risk of crashing.

Just as Caro and the boys returned from viewing the aviary, the lunch gong rang out and they all trooped into the dining room. William was particularly taken with Caro's collection of native birds. The fact that their songs were melodious rather than raucous was a definite plus. Caro explained that she had a number of bird books in her library, all beautifully illustrated, if the little boy would like to learn more about Brazilian birds and William nodded, enthusiastically. He seemed to have settled into the new environment, and quite quickly.

During lunch, Caro's mobile phone rang. She would not, normally, have brought her phone to the dining table but the anticipated call from Mycroft had caused her to break her own rule. She checked the caller ID and took the call.

'Mycroft, dear, hello,' she began. 'I do apologise for disturbing you at work but I'm sure you appreciate the serious nature of the situation.' There was then a long pause, as she listened to Mycroft speaking from London, then she said, simply,

'Very well. Thank you,' and held out the phone to Sherlock.

'He wishes to speak to you,' she stated.

Sherlock took the phone, as he rose from the table and left the room. Once out of ear shot, he spoke,

'Hello, brother.'

'Sherlock,' Mycroft replied, by way of a greeting. 'I gather things have taken a rather unexpected turn.'

'Indeed. I was rather hoping to avoid prison. Not something I anticipated when I planned this trip.'

'What do these journo types think they know?'

'They seem to believe I was here before, that I was undercover and working for the British Government and that I had something to do with the death of a hit man known as the Little Demon. All a bit vague, really, but this Alvarez woman is making a big thing of it. Minister of Justice, I understand, and she seems to want to do things by the book.'

'And you have twenty four hours to submit for questioning?'

'That's about the size of it – less than that, now. More like twenty hours.'

'Right. Well, under no circumstances must you go to the police headquarters – neither the civil police nor the federal police. Once you're on their territory, you're a sitting duck. I will contact the British Consul in Rio and advise him of the situation. Unless you hear to the contrary, you must go to the British Consulate tomorrow morning and the police can interview you there.'

Sherlock acknowledged this advice with a grunt and then asked,

'Are the children about?'

'No. The children are sleeping.'

In this way, Sherlock ascertained that this was a secure line and he could speak frankly.

'When I was here before, was the Brazilian Government in on that?'

'They were, indeed, on a 'need to know' basis.'

'By which you mean that the Civil Service knew about it but not the politicians.'

'Quite correct.'

'And will there be a paper trail?'

'Unless someone decided to have a clear out some time in the last five years, yes. One can never be too sure.'

'So I would have diplomatic immunity?'

'Not automatically. If you're charged with murder, your immunity does not necessarily cover that. But the status of the alleged victim is crucial, here.'

'Meaning?'

'As an Indian, he had no legal status within his own country. And he was an assassin – a rather famous one – and he was on a mission to kill you. However, we mustn't get ahead of ourselves. Leave this with me. Caro will make sure you get to the Consulate in the morning – your morning – by nine a.m.'

'And Molly and the boys? Should they come, too?'

'Not necessary. Even if they arrest you, they have no grounds whatsoever to detain Molly and your children. The worst they would do is deport them, send them back here to the UK. Do give them all my regards, by the way.'

'I will. And ours to yours. Thank you, Mycroft. Enjoy your afternoon tea,' Sherlock replied and heard the line go dead. He closed Caro's phone and returned to the dining room. As he entered, Molly cast a concerned glance his way but he gave her a reassuring smile and she relaxed, visibly.

ooOoo

Keeping the boys entertained at Caro's home was not difficult. William spent much of the afternoon in the library, researching the bird life of Brazil, with Molly's assistance, while Freddie enjoyed an afternoon nap. Sherlock talked with Caro, in her study, about the press conference and all the characters involved in that, to try to ascertain who had most to gain from discrediting him, the Foundation, the Centre or even Caro herself. One could not rule out the possibility that her reputation was the intended target.

'Tell me about Senhora Alvarez,' he prompted.

'She's a career politician, a very ambitious woman, very keen to make a name for herself on the political stage. She actively courts publicity and fancies herself as a bit of a campaigner for truth and justice. This whiff of scandal would be irresistible to her. And she would not care about the casualties. It would not trouble her sleep that the Centre may have to close and all the good work come to nothing.'

Sherlock nodded and stored that information away for future consideration.

'Gustavo Oliviera?' he asked, next.

'He has held a number of different roles in government. His latest appointment as Minister of Cities is rather seen as a step toward graceful retirement. He has a proven track record as a statesman so no skeletons in his cupboard. A scandal would not be an attractive option for him, this close to the conclusion of his career. Neither would want Rio to be known as a place where foreign agents can conduct covert operations without the knowledge or consent of the local authorities.'

'Well, that leaves the _delegados_, João Vitor Diaz. What can you tell me about him?'

'He is a local man. He came up through the ranks of regional government and was chair of the Rio council for a good while. He campaigned long and hard to become the _delegados _and has held the office for the last three years. He was grateful to you for sniffing out the Baby Trafficking ring. He would not want his golden egg-laying goose to be found to have feet of clay.'

'OK. Is there anyone else, perhaps not at the press conference, who could have an axe to grind?'

Caro thought very hard but could not come up with any other names.

'That doesn't mean there isn't someone. The press could have been briefed by just about anyone,' she admitted.

'Let's eliminate those we know about, first,' Sherlock concluded. 'We can widen the net later, if necessary.'

'Would you like to hear some different news?' Caro asked, out of the blue.

Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow, which Caro took as an affirmative response.

'The Centre has been pretty much inundated with women coming forward to say that they gave birth at the St Winifred Clinic and were told their babies were stillborn. None of them were shown their babies. They were told that they were so badly deformed it would have been distressing to the mothers to see them. But a couple of the women said they heard their babies cry and refused to believe that they were dead. These women were kicked out of the clinic and warned not to spread vicious rumours or bad things would happen.'

Sherlock rubbed his lower lip and nodded. This whole operation was a typical example of what could happen when ruthless people targeted the helpless, the voiceless, the disenfranchised in society. It made him very angry – which surprised him. Having feelings or at least admitting to them, especially for people he did not even know, still felt a bit alien. He was wary that these could cloud his vision and impede his investigative perspicacity. He needed to watch out for that.

'We have a lot of work to do, gathering the DNA from these women, locating all the babies that were sold by the ring and reuniting them with their real parents,' Caro commented.

'Some would say that is the unkind thing to do,' Sherlock replied. 'These children will be living in the lap of luxury, no doubt, and we are going to condemn them to a life of poverty.'

It was an inconvenient truth that could not be denied and Caro was stumped for something to say.

The sound of Freddie's voice broke into the uncomfortable silence, yelling, very loudly, from his bedroom. Sherlock smiled and glanced across at Caro.

'He doesn't do waiting,' he remarked, with a sense of pride at the assertiveness of his youngest son. 'I'd better go and get him before he chews his way out through the door.'

He rose and left the study, walked down the corridor and stopped outside the boys' bedroom. Freddie could be heard banging, now, on the other side of the door. Sherlock opened the door a tiny crack and called.

Freddie, get away from the door so I can open it!'

'Dadada, wick-door-opit!' That was a new one on Daddy. Freddie was coming up with new compound words every day, some of which had a distinctly Portuguese flavour to them. Sherlock wondered if this would confuse his language development or enhance it. But he didn't have time to think about it too deeply as Freddie was pulling the door open and waddling through the gap, arms held aloft, demanding to be lifted up.

His father obliged and was rewarded with a barrage of vocalisations which bore very little similarity to any meaningful words. Freddie was at that fascinating stage where he was still playing around with sound. Sherlock listened with interest and replied,

'Is that so? Well, thank you for sharing. I'll bear it in mind.'

This was clearly the right answer, as Freddie chuckled with delight.

ooOoo

In bed, that night, was the first chance Sherlock had to feed back to Molly the content of his conversations with both Mycroft and Caro. They lay, face to face, her head on his shoulder, his arm supporting her back, her left leg draped over his hip, his hand on her thigh. True to their pact, they were abstaining from full intercourse until her fertile period, which was only a couple of days away. But, as he had pointed out, there were alternatives that could be almost as satisfying and they had been exploring those options with scientific zeal. Now, in the aftermath, they were having this conversation.

She knew he was leaving early in the morning, for the British Consulate, in order to speak to the police, but that was the extent of her knowledge. He brought her up to speed on the details.

'Surely they can't arrest you in the Consulate. It's British sovereign soil, isn't it?'

'They can if the Consul hands me over.'

'Why would he do that?' Molly was really alarmed now.

'It's unlikely but we can't ignore the possibility. We must prepare for all eventualities.'

'What do you mean by prepare? What can we do?'

He drew his head back a little so that he could make eye contact with her.

'If they arrest me – take me into custody – I want you to take the boys and go back to the UK.'

Molly stared, literally open-mouthed, at the serious expression on his face. She could see that he totally meant what he was saying. This wasn't some ludicrous wind-up.

'But that would leave you here on your own! How could I do that?' Her eyes were stinging with tears at the very thought of abandoning him.

He put his hand to the nape of her neck and pressed her cheek to his chest, tightening his arm around her.

'I won't be alone. Caro and Henrique will be here and Mycroft will not let me rot in a foreign gaol.'

Molly was sobbing, quietly, now and the tears were running freely.

'I wish we'd never come here! I don't want you to go to the Consulate tomorrow. Let's just pack up and go home, sneak away in the night.'

He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her tight, pressing his cheek to the crown of her head.

'It won't happen, Molly. They have no evidence, the only witnesses are the Uncontacted and they are, by definition, untraceable. This is all a distraction, an elaborate smoke screen. Someone wants me discredited or out of the way or….something. I don't know what is going on. All I know is that something is.'

But Molly was inconsolable. The thought of leaving the country, with the boys, and travelling nearly six thousand miles away, with Sherlock facing an uncertain future in a Brazilian gaol, was more than she could bear. It was the final straw. The quiet sobs were not quiet any more and her chest heaved with wracking convulsions as she clung to him, in desperation.

He knew that words were pointless. All the pent up stress of the last two weeks of non-stop drama had finally burst the dam and she needed to cry it all out. Sherlock's new-found respect for the benefits of weeping informed his decision to give up trying to reassure her. Instead, he held her as close as he could, screwed his eyes tight shut and felt the pain pour out of her.

ooOoo


	26. Loose Ends Chapter 25

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Five**

Sherlock was up early the next morning, showered, shaved and dressed, after a night of little sleep. Even if he could have found respite in the arms of Morpheus, Molly's restlessness would have roused him repeatedly. As it was, he lay awake most of the night, holding her in his arms, soothing her when she became agitated, trying to calm her fears. But her dreams where full of nightmare visions of slamming doors and panicked running – never reaching a destination – so she tossed and turned, muttered and cried out, frequently, despite his best efforts.

The rosy fingers of dawn found them both wide awake, she with sore red eyes and he with dark shadows under his. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand and trying to find the words that would ease her terror and alarm at the prospect of what the next few hours could bring. The sound of his phone ringing out startled them both. He slipped his hand into his inside pocket and took it out.

'Mycroft,' he said, simply, then pressed 'Answer'.

'Good morning, brother,' he opened.

'Yes, I believe it is, Sherlock,' Mycroft replied. 'I've spoken to my counterpart in the Brazilian Government and the news is good. He has all the documentation regarding the purpose of your previous visit and the various sanctions for your activities. Copies have been delivered to the British Consulate.'

The idea of Mycroft having a counterpart in any government was a disconcerting thought and one Sherlock had never really considered before. It called up an image of an army of Mycrofts, scattered around the world, carrying out their clandestine duties, running absolutely everything, everywhere. He snapped his attention back to the conversation.

'So, what does that mean, in practical terms?'

'It means that you can go there today, speak with whomever and tell them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Give full and frank answers to their questions, don't volunteer any information unsolicited and if there are any questions for which you do not have an answer, just say 'I don't know.' Do not speculate or deduce or surmise, brother dear, do you understand?'

Sherlock gritted his teeth. This resurgence of the 'father figure' Mycroft – he knew – was only because his big brother was concerned for him but it still made him feel like he was back in Remove and had just been summoned to the House Master's study.

'No, Mycroft, I won't. And thank you for reminding me.'

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line and then he heard,

'I apologise, Sherlock. Old habits die hard. Keep your phone on and please call me as soon as you have finished speaking to them – so that I know you are safe,' he added, his voice softening.

'I will. And please, don't worry. I'll be fine.'

Mycroft gave a wry laugh.

'That, dear brother, is what you always say.'

Sherlock ended the call and turned to Molly with a reassuring smile.

'Mycroft has fixed everything!' he said, brightly.

'Then why did you tell him not to worry?' Molly retorted.

Sherlock pursed his lips and leant forward to gather her into his arms.

'He's a born worrier. If he had nothing to worry about, he'd be worried. So don't you worry, OK?'

'You might as well tell me not to breathe,' she replied, getting teary again.

'Are you sure you're not pregnant already?' he asked, pulling back to look into her eyes.

She wrinkled her brow and replied,

'I don't think so….'

He smiled and kissed her forehead.

'I'm going to get some breakfast,' he announced, standing up and straightening his jacket.

'Come and say goodbye, before you leave,' she insisted and he nodded, as he left the room.

Caro and Henrique were in the dining room, tucking into pancakes, bacon and Maple syrup. Sherlock greeted them, as he helped himself to a cup of strong, black coffee, adding two sugars and taking a large slurp.

'Good morning, Sherlock,' Henrique responded. 'This is a very bad business. I hope you can put it to bed, today, yes?'

Sherlock agreed, then told him and his wife about Mycroft's phone call. Caro looked somewhat relieved.

'Well, they can have no grounds to arrest you. You were here on official business and you acted in self-defence. Case closed!' she declared, emphatically, causing both men to laugh.

'My wife has spoken, that is the end of it!' joked Henrique, with obvious affection.

'I'd like to believe it's that straight forward but if Mycroft asked you to ring him as soon as the police have done with you, that leads me to believe that perhaps it's not all cut and dried,' Caro added, as a note of caution.

'Well, we shall see.' Sherlock replied.

He was thinking more about the puzzle of who was behind all this than he was about his impending police interview. He needed to speak to all the suspects, individually, so that he could get a feel for who they really were and what their motivations might be. That was his principle goal.

Before he left, as promised, he returned to the bedrooms, to look in on the boys – who were both still sleeping – and to kiss Molly goodbye. She had been crying again, he could see.

'Please, Molly, try not to worry. I will be fine, trust me,' he pleaded.

'I do trust you but I know what you're like when you have your detective head on. Everything else goes out of the window. You must concentrate on the police interview, first. Get that over with. Then you can switch the blood hound back on. Promise me you will do that?'

He crossed his heart and then kissed her, pressing his lips to hers and tasting the dried salt tears.

'I love you,' he whispered, 'and we have a baby to make in two days' time and we can't do that if I'm in gaol. So I will concentrate, believe me.'

He kissed her again, to seal the promise, then left.

ooOoo

On arrival at the Consulate General, which occupied the entire second floor of an office building on Praia do Flamengo, which looked, from the outside, like any other office building had it not been for the Union Jack flying from a flag pole, beside one of the second floor windows. and the presence of British security personnel, in the foyer, when they stepped from the lift.

Both Caro and Sherlock were required to show their passports, in order to gain entrance to the Inner Sanctum but, once inside, they were treated with the utmost courtesy and shown to a very comfortable sitting room, to wait for the Consul to appear. There, they were served with coffee and left alone.

Sherlock stood by the window, sipping his coffee and watching the traffic on the busy freeway, Avenida Infante de Henrique, that ran parallel to Praia do Flamengo, and gazing at the ocean, beyond. But, in truth, his mind was elsewhere – puzzling, scanning, deducing. Such was his distraction that he did not hear the British Consul General enter the room and was completely unaware of the man's presence until Caro touched his arm. Having not responded to his name being called, twice, she had crossed the room to get his attention.

He looked down at her, initially, through empty eyes, then suddenly re-inhabited them and was back in the room.

'Sherlock, this is Mr Jolyon Marsden, the British Consul General, here in Rio.' Caro introduced them and the two men shook hands and sat down, on opposite sofas, facing one another over a coffee table.

'The interview with the police will take place in this room, Mr Holmes, in the presence of myself and our senior legal advisor, Miss Josephine Mulligan, who will be joining us, shortly. Miss Mulligan is familiar with the circumstances of this interview and she has read all the documentation in relations to your previous activities in Brazil – in fact, she is reading them now, which is why she has not joined us yet. If there are any questions she feels are unrelated or leading, she will advise you appropriately. If there are any questions you don't understand, she will explain them to you. Is this satisfactory?' Jolyon Marsden concluded, with a questioning look.

Sherlock considered for a moment and replied,

'Perfectly, thank you.'

Marsden smiled, ingratiatingly, and turned to Caro, sitting beside Sherlock, and engaged her in polite small talk, whilst Sherlock rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rubbed his bottom lip with one finger, his mind wandering back to its former location. When Miss Mulligan arrived, she greeted him with a smile and handshake and sat down beside the Consul.

'You were very busy on your last visit to South America, Mr Holmes. I hope your current sojourn is more restful,' she commented, with a broad smile, which he interpreted as being a little smug and self-satisfied.

'Not really,' he replied and left it at that.

The barrister tried again.

'Have you managed to fit in any sight-seeing, between cracking baby trafficking rings and being accused of murder?'

Sherlock fixed her with a withering stare and did not bother to speak at all. This did not bode well, he thought, and certainly did nothing for his confidence in this meeting being a mere formality. He sincerely hoped this woman was better at her job than she was at social intercourse. He was slightly heartened by this thought, since he was aware that he fitted into that category himself.

'Mr Holmes is here with his family, Miss Mulligan, and has been promoting and fundraising for the Children's Centre, which he founded, using his mother's bequest. So, yes, he has been fully occupied during his visit,' Caro filled in.

'Oh, you have children!' Miss Mulligan gushed. 'I do so love children – but I couldn't eat a whole one!' she brayed, followed by a loud, shrill laugh that grated, sorely, on Sherlock's nerves. 'What make are they?'

Sherlock gave a deep sigh of resignation and replied,

'They are both boys.'

'Oh, boys! And do they take after their daddy?' she chortled.

He was rescued from this excruciating conversation by the arrival of the Federal Police. He thought he had never been more relieved to see anyone in his entire life before – though he knew this was a gross misrepresentation of the truth. Introductions were made and the protagonists moved to the table, at the other end of the room, arranging themselves on opposite sides. The police had brought with them a double cassette recorder, to tape the interview, and a stenographer, to take minutes. Caro stayed on the sofa, to observe proceedings from afar.

ooOoo

Back at Caro and Henrique's home, Molly and the boys were having a late breakfast. After Sherlock left with Caro, Molly had made a real effort to contain her emotions, for the sake of the boys but it was impossible to put to the back of her mind what might be happening at the British Consulate General. Every time her thoughts strayed in that direction, her stomach turned over and her heart leapt into her throat. William, who had been told that his father had gone to an important meeting today, was not slow to spot her discomfiture.

'Mummy, is Daddy alright? What is his meeting about?'

Molly brushed William's cheek with the backs of her fingers.

'He just has to answer some questions about the last time he was here, darling. But I'm sure he is alright.'

She wished she felt the confidence her words implied.

'Is that why we had to come here, to stay at Auntie Caro's?'

The titles of honorary auntie and uncle had been conferred upon Caro and Henrique to make it easier for the boys to relate to them. It made them part of the family and, therefore, safe people to be around. This was important for William – not so much for Freddie.

'Yes, sort of, darling,' Molly replied.

She could not lie to William, even if she could not tell him the whole truth. He was too smart not to know if she wasn't being honest. And he knew she was keeping something from him but lacked the vocabulary to voice his concerns. Instead, he started to recite his Periodic Table, silently, in his mind. He went to his Mind Ship and stood on the quarter deck, in front of the wheelhouse, facing the three masts and rigging the sails with the various groups of elements.

Beginning with the Alkali metals – Lithium, Sodium, Potassium, Rubidium, Caesium, Francium – he added sails to each mast in turn, then the Alkaline earth metals – Beryllium, Magnesium, Calcium, Strontium, Barium, Radium - and so on, and so on, all the way to the Noble gases – Helium, Neon, Argon, Krypton, Xenon, and Radon, until all three masts were rigged and the ship was in full sail.

Molly knew he was stress busting. She wished she had a technique to do that, too. She made a mental note to ask Sherlock to devise a system for her to use. Being with him seemed to come with more than its fair share of stress so it was something that she needed him to do.

She glanced across at Freddie, munching away on his toast soldiers. Nothing seemed to faze him. Her boys were so different from each other. She hoped that this would help them to remain friends, as they grew up. She often felt that it was the similarities between Sherlock and Mycroft that came between them, far more than their differences.

Following breakfast, Molly got the boys ready and took them to the pool, where they spent a calm, relaxed morning, enjoying the water and the sunshine. William noted the change in his brother in the pool environment.

'Freddie likes the swimming pool, doesn't he, Mummy,' he declared. 'He goes quiet and just smiles. Do you think he could be a merman?'

Molly had to smile, despite her state of tension.

'Maybe. We'll have to wait and see if his legs turn into a fish tail. Would you like a merman for a brother?'

William put his head on one side and replied, thoughtfully,

'As long as he is happy being a merman, it doesn't really matter what I think. But I would be happy if he was happy. He's my brother and I love him – even though he is really noisy sometimes. He would be much quieter if he was a merman all the time.'

'Mermen and mermaids turn into humans, when they come out of the water. Their fish tails turn into legs,' Molly explained.

'Well, he would be quiet some of the time. That will have to do,' the five year old philosopher concluded.

As the morning wore on with still no word from Sherlock, Molly told herself that no news was good news. If Sherlock was telling them all about his time in Brazil, it probably would take a long time. That was logical.

Lunch time came around and she brought the boys to the dining room, to be served by the lovely staff, who were always so kind to her and her family and encouraged William with his Portuguese. He was getting really good at understanding, now, and his vocabulary was growing every day. Molly was quite convinced that he would probably be fluent by the time they went home – provided that was in six weeks, rather than in the next few days, and with Sherlock, rather than without him. She shut off that train of thought. That was too awful to contemplate.

After lunch, Molly took a blanket and spread it on the ground, next to the Jungle Gym, so that Freddie could have a nap while William played on the climbing frame. She sat on the blanket, next to the sleeping toddler, and kept one eye on her other son but her gaze kept straying back to the house, hoping to see Sherlock striding across the lawn and hoping not to see Caro, advancing alone to give her the bad news.

She kept checking her mobile, to make sure she hadn't missed a call, to make sure she had a signal. The mobile network coverage was strange here. It could go from five bars to 'No Signal' without the phone moving an inch in any direction. It was as though the signal was blown off course by the wind. She tried to read a magazine but kept reading the same passage over and over, without even noticing. The waiting was nerve-shredding and unrelenting. The minutes crawled by.

It was William who was first to notice. From his vantage point, in the crow's nest, he could see everything, as far as the trees, the hill and the house permitted. And he had been watching the French windows of the Afternoon Drawing Room for the best part of an hour – barely even blinking – for a glimpse of his father, returning from his 'questions'. His vigilance was, at last, rewarded when he saw a familiar figure emerge through the open doors.

'Mummy!' he shouted. 'It's Daddy! He's back!'

Molly scrambled to her feet but resisted the urge to run across the grass and throw herself into his arms, mainly because she was shaking so badly she did not trust her ability to move without falling down. William, however, had no such qualms. He slithered down the climbing frame, like a fish down a waterfall, and raced toward the advancing figure of his father, who stopped, dropt on one knee and opened his arms, as the little boy closed the gap between them.

'Daddy!' shrieked the child, and hurled himself into those waiting arms.

Sherlock caught his son, mid-flight, and swung him around, rising to his feet in the process, and laughing in delight.

'Whoa, William! What's the occasion?'

'I've missed you, Daddy,' the child replied, hugging his father's neck.

'I haven't been away that long,' he chided, affectionately.

'Mummy's missed you, too. She's been really sad,' William added.

Sherlock hugged him close, as he turned and looked across the lawn at the figure of Molly, standing next to the climbing frame. She looked so small and fragile, his heart lurched, and he resumed his long-striding progress across the expanse of grass, transferring his son to the crook of his arm, so he could move more freely.

As he approached the edge of the blanket, Molly stepped forward and all but crashed into him, grabbing his jacket with both hands, just needing to hold onto him and not let go. He pulled her against his body, with one arm, and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

'It's fine, Molly, it's fine. I'm fine. It's all fine,' he repeated, over and over, into her hair, as all three clung together and Freddie slept on, blissfully unaware of it all.

ooOoo


	27. Loose Ends Chapter 26

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

Molly and Sherlock sat on the blanket, next to the still peacefully sleeping Freddie. William had climbed back up to the crow's nest and was busy finding places in his Mind Ship for things he wanted to remember.

Molly was holding one of Sherlock's hands with both of hers. She really didn't want to let go of him. She was desperate to know what had happened at the Consulate but she knew Sherlock would not bring it up until the boys were in bed so she had to content herself with knowing that at least he was safe and not about to be taken away from her and thrown into prison.

Having had very little sleep the previous night and a very stressful day, Sherlock felt suddenly exhausted. He lay back on the blanket and put his free arm across his brow, closing his eyes and feeling the tension of the day drain away. Molly wrapped his right arm round her shoulders and lay down beside him, her head on his chest, still linking her fingers with his, listening to the slow, steady beating of his heart. Unconsciously, she stroked round his left nipple, with one finger, through the fabric of his shirt, .

'Molly,' he said, quietly, after a moment or two, 'whereas that sensation is extremely pleasant, I must point out, firstly, that there are children present and, secondly, we have not indulged in penetrative sex for over a week and, therefore, the physical effects of your ministrations are becoming painfully apparent.'

It took Molly a moment or two to process his rather convoluted statement but, when she eventually cottoned on, a glance at his groin area confirmed what he had alluded to and she pulled her hand away from his nipple, as though she had been burned.

'Oh, I am so sorry, Sherlock, I wasn't even thinking!' she gasped.

'Please, don't apologise,' he replied, without moving a muscle to alter his position. 'As I said, the sensation was very pleasant. Just at the wrong time and in the wrong circumstances. I must confess, though, I don't think I can wait until tomorrow night. I think we might have to break our fast a day early.'

'That is fine by me,' she agreed, cuddling into his side and placing her right hand on his shoulder – well out of danger.

'The thought also occurred that we have been here for a few days now and we still have not taken advantage of that beautiful copper bath. Don't you think it would be a crime not to avail ourselves of the facilities?'

Molly had to concur. Their bath at home was barely big enough for one person, let alone two, and even the luxury en suite at the Palace Hotel only had a shower – albeit a large one. The last time they shared a bath had been at Mycroft's house, before Freddie was born, just before Sherlock went up against Dame Joan and very nearly died.

The idea of a shared bath had the same effect on her as the nipple stroking had had on him and she pulled her knees up to her stomach, to alleviate the stress in that particular part of her anatomy. This did not go unnoticed by Sherlock and he chuckled, naughtily. Molly pulled herself up, to come face to face with him and, pushing his arm of his face, she pressed her lips to his and gave him a long, lingering, sensuous kiss, brushing her tongue along the edge of his bottom lip and then back along the top one.

He opened his eyes and looked into hers, as she drew back, in order to see him better.

'That was cheating,' he murmured, raising one knee, and moving his hand to rest on the thigh of the leg that she had thrown over his hip.

'I do cheat. Didn't I make that clear?' she retorted, with a wicked grin.

William chose that particular moment to call from his vantage point.

'Mummy, Daddy, Auntie Caro is waving at me.'

'Ah, teatime,' Sherlock exclaimed. 'She said she would let us know when tea was served.'

William's call had roused Freddie from his afternoon nap and he rolled over and pushed himself up on his hands, spotted Sherlock, lying on the blanket beside him, and grinned, charmingly.

'Ehwo, Dadada, teati'e?' He always put in the extra syllable for the paternal pronoun, as he did with the maternal, 'Mumumum'. It gave them that extra sense of possession.

Molly got to her feet and brushed herself down, as Sherlock picked up Freddie and stood up, too. Folding the blanket and calling William down from on high, the family made their way back toward the house.

ooOoo

'I cannot tell you how relieved I am that this has been sorted, Molly. My only regret is that you will now, no doubt, be returning to your hotel. It has been lovely having you and the boys here.'

Molly smiled at Caro, with sympathy and some regret. Yes, they needed to get back to the hotel. It worried her that they were still paying for the rooms, even though they weren't using them. She knew that this was the least of Sherlock's concerns. It was only money and he had never cared much for that, a luxury that only the very privileged could indulge. However, it did concern her.

'But can I make a suggestion?' their hostess went on. 'I would like to make you an offer.'

Sherlock and Molly listened with interest and curiosity.

'You two don't get a lot of time to yourselves, with the boys here. I wonder if you would allow me to look after them for a day or two, whilst you have a couple of days to yourselves, doing 'couple' things as opposed to 'family' things.'

She continued quickly, not giving them time to interrupt.

'Both the boys are happy here. They know me well enough to accept me as a child-minder and, from a purely selfish point of view, I would really love to have them for a day or two.'

It was something neither Molly nor Sherlock had ever thought about, having time off from parenthood. They didn't think of themselves as a couple. They were a family and had been from the very beginning of their relationship. But there was something about the idea that appealed to both of them. They looked at one another, lost for words.

'You don't need to give me an answer now. Think about it, discuss it and let me know in the morning. And please don't feel obliged to accept. I won't be hurt if you say no.'

They both knew she would be very hurt and disappointed but it was not in Caro's nature to put her own needs first. She was cut from the same cloth as Molly, a born facilitator.

'Thank you, Caro, that is really sweet of you. We will talk about it and let you know in the morning,' Molly replied and the conversation moved on to other things.

ooOoo

True to his word, no sooner were the boys were in bed and sleeping soundly, than Sherlock was in the en suite bathroom, running water into the antique copper tub. It made Molly giggle to see him engaged in what was a very practical activity, but with such a romantic intention. He sat on the side of the bath, swirling the water with his hand to make sure the temperature was just right. He had poured in a fair amount of the very expensive bath oil that Caro had provided for her guests, so the water was covered with a thick layer of foam.

Having drawn the bath to his satisfaction, he set about customising the environment. He had gathered up a number of large candles that were placed in various strategic places in the bedroom. Caro had explained that the area – being semi-rural – was prone to sudden power cuts which could last anything from a few minutes to several hours, so she had provided candles for such an eventuality. Sherlock was now placing them on all available surfaces in the bathroom and lighting them.

Molly, who had been putting her hair up in a loose bun, stood in the bathroom door way, watching his earnest preparations.

'You old romantic, you,' she chuckled.

He quirked an eyebrow in her direction.

'This is an experimental protocol, Dr Hooper. Please do not mock.'

'And what is your hypothesis, Mr Holmes?' she enquired.

He turned from lighting his last candle.

'That, doctor, is for me to know and for you to surmise,' he replied, cryptically, before drawing himself to his full height and beginning to unbutton his shirt, giving her a smouldering look.

Molly could not help dissolving into a fit of giggles but he was undeterred and continued to remove his clothing, carefully folding each item and placing it on top of the laundry bin, until he stood naked before her. He then stepped demurely into the bathtub and sank down beneath the bubbles, up to his chest, gripping the roll top of the bath with both hands.

'Well, Dr Hooper, the experiment has begun. It now requires your participation.

Molly shook her head, in amusement, and began to undress.

'Stop!' he piped up. She froze, with her blouse half unbuttoned.

'What's the matter?' she asked, genuinely confused.

'When I removed my clothing, I did so in an alluring manner, designed to stimulate erotic intention in the observer. The roles are now reversed. If this experiment is to be viable, control conditions must be adhered to throughout. Therefore, you must remove your clothing in a similar manner.' His facial expression was completely serious. Molly, on the other hand, was almost helpless with hysterical laughter.

'But it didn't stimulate erotic intention, it just made me laugh,' she protested, giggling uncontrollably.

'Well, who's to say your disrobing might not induce hysteria in me, also? The only way to test the theory is to carry out the protocol,' he retorted.

'Oh, alright, then,' Molly conceded and, stepping into the room, she closed and locked the door – just in case – and proceeded to remove her clothes as alluringly as she could muster, in the face of unbridled mirth. Sherlock's expression remained impassive, throughout.

She finally slipped of her panties and tossed them over her shoulder before leaping into the bath, causing him to draw up his knees, reflexively, to avoid being trodden on. Molly settled down at the other end of the bath and fixed him with a challenging look.

'What do you deduce from your experiment so far, Mr Holmes,' she asked. He lowered his knees slowly, then reached out and caught her by the wrist, pulling her to his end of the tub so that she lay on top of him, resting back against his torso. He pushed her head to one side with his own and began to explore her neck with his mouth.

'I. Deduce,' he spoke, punctuating each word with a kiss or a nip or a stroke of his tongue, 'That. You. And. I. Will. Make. Sweet. Music. Together. Tonight.'

Molly felt a growing heat in her very core, at the touch of his mouth on her neck and his hands on her body. She rolled over, wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him into a deep, passionate kiss. She wasn't laughing any more.

ooOoo


	28. Loose Ends Chapter 27

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

Sherlock and Molly lay wrapped in each other's arms, speaking in muted voices, enjoying the sensation of skin on skin. They had made 'sweet music' together, as he had predicted. He had borrowed that cheesy line from a nauseatingly fluffy Rom Com that Molly had forced him to watch (despite his protestations) on one of the many occasions when he had been on a case and failed to keep her informed of his whereabouts and state of health.

She had accused him of 'deliberately obfuscating' and being 'thoughtlessly cavalier' in his regard for her peace of mind and had insisted, as both a punishment for the recent misdemeanour and a deterrent to future lapses, that he sit through the entire two and a half hours of 'When Polly Met Wally in Seattle with Mail'. It had not been entirely successful in its remit but it was an experience he was unlikely ever to forget. Now, he used that line as a sort of code, to express to her how much he appreciated her love, care and loyalty.

He had used it tonight because he knew he had prolonged her suffering by not calling her, from the Consulate, as soon as the police interview was over. But the bloodhound had taken control and he had been lured away by the scent of a trail. He hadn't called Mycroft either. But his brother had phoned the Consulate himself and been informed of the positive outcome. Molly, he knew, would never have done that – for fear of doing 'the wrong thing' so she had worried and whittled and worn herself to a frazzle, on his behalf. He really did not deserve her. He could never tell her just how grateful he was that she couldn't see that.

So now, in their post-coital haze, he was explaining what had happened at the Consulate, his voice soft and light, barely above a whisper, more like a sigh.

'I thought the barrister was an idiot, when I first met her, but once we got down to business, she was the real McCoy. They wanted to know every minute detail about the South American mission but she told them they were only entitled to know what happened in Brazil. I told them everything – why I came here, what was supposed to happen, what actually happened – how they pretty much kidnaped me and held me in the hotel room, before the meeting.'

'I told them how I escaped, how Rocky and the other Street Kids helped me; about the contract on me, the escape plan and what happened in the forest. I didn't tell them about the amnesia or any of what happened after I left Brazil – other than that I hiked through the jungle to escape.'

'The Mulligan woman showed them the official papers – fully redacted, no doubt - and explained that, as the mission was sanctioned by the Brazilian Government and I was working for the British Government, and acting in self-defence, no crime was committed, so there were no charges to be answered. She confirmed that I had diplomatic immunity, at the time. So that was that.'

'But you were there for hours. So what took so long?' Molly wanted to know.

He turned her face toward his own and smoothed his hand over her hair.

'After the police left, Jolyan Marsden made some comment, like – well that's that then – as though it was all over, all sorted. I told him, no, that wasn't that; that I wanted to find out who was behind the leak to the press. He asked me how I intended to do that. I told him who the main suspects were and he offered to let me read their Top Secret files.'

Molly saw the hunger of the addict in his eyes. She knew that, if there was one thing that could banish all other concerns from the mind of Sherlock Holmes, it would be the opportunity to see the contents of those files. This was pure, raw data – the mother lode. This was mainlining information. Irresistible. He was forgiven, already.

'So he just gave you their files? Just like that?'

'No not 'just like that.' Mycroft had advised him that I was to be afforded every courtesy, given all assistance and that I had maximum security clearance.'

'So whose files did you see?'

'Diaz, Alvarez and Oliviera.'

'And?'

'Interesting, very interesting.'

Molly knew better than to press him further. She could see by the way his eyes had lost their focus that he was slipping into his own mind, beginning to process the information he had absorbed, like a sponge, poring over those secret government files; information that documented every minute detail of the public and private lives of the subjects from birth to the present day; information that was constantly being updated, moment by moment, day by day. Big Brother had been and still was watching them.

She felt the muscle tone in his body move from flaccid to taut, in a millisecond, and he rolled away from her, slipped out of bed and pulled on his pj bottoms, that had been lying on the chair. Picking up his dressing gown, from the same chair, he whirled it over his head and slipped his arms into the sleeves. In seconds, he was gone.

Gone was he from the room, striding through the silent house, to the Afternoon Drawing Room. Testing the French windows, he found them to be locked and not wishing to set off any alarms, he resisted the urge to pick the lock and, instead, moved to the sofa and stretched out, placing his hands in the prayer position beneath his chin. A small part of his brain protested that the air was cool and he should have worn a t-shirt. But it was a tiny voice that went unheeded, as he threw open the arched oak door and entered his Mind Palace, heading straight for the new room he had prepared and it's three occupants – Diaz, Alvarez and Oliviera.

ooOoo

Molly had no idea how much time had passed when she awoke, with a start, and was momentarily disorientated by the strangeness of the room. However, as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, her memory recalled their current location – Caro and Henrique's home. She rolled onto her back, bringing up her hand to stroke her brow, which was slick with perspiration. As she moved, she became aware of the body, beside her, in the bed. He was back. She sighed, with relief.

'What is it?' he mumbled, still three quarters asleep.

'Hmm,' she replied, 'I had a really odd dream.'' She continued her roll, toward him, until they were face to face and she could drape her left leg over his hip and slide her left arm under his right and round his torso, pressing her cheek to his chest.'

'Nightmare?' he murmured.

'Not exactly, just strange. It was about Freddie.'

She felt, or rather sensed, him become more alert.

'What about Freddie?' he asked.

'It was stupid, really. He was grown up – in his twenties – and he was in all the papers. Front page spread, the works.'

Sherlock was preternaturally still, beside her, wary and suspicious at the mention of the press.

'Why was he?'

'Just some silly scandal.'

Sherlock huffed, 'Not another Holmes scandal. Can we withstand the pressure?'

Molly wasn't sure if he was being serious or sarcastic but she went on.

'He was photographed in a hotel room, playing strip poker with some young ladies. One of them took pictures on her mobile phone of Freddie and all these naked ladies and sold them to the tabloid papers.'

He let out a snort of laughter.

'Little Freddie?'

'Well, he wasn't that little, actually,' Molly corrected.

Sherlock was chuckling now.

'And was he naked too?'

'Yes, he was,' she replied, feeling a bit embarrassed at having dreamt such a thing about her toddler son, but her other half was finding it rather hilarious.

'No son of mine would be beaten at poker by a bunch of slappers,' he giggled. 'He must have lost on purpose.'

With that, he planted a smacker on the top of her head and exhaled long and loud into her hair before resting his cheek on her crown and drifting back to sleep.

Molly had no idea how long he had been away but the fact that he was back, relaxed and sleeping soundly must mean that he had reached some sort of conclusion. She was happy to wait until morning to discover what that was.

ooOoo

Next morning, Sherlock awoke first and lay quietly, listening to Molly's slow, steady breathing and thinking about his 'conversations' with his three prime suspects, in his Mind Palace, the night before. He had made several preliminary deductions about each of them but the files had provided a huge amount of information, which all needed to be processed and analysed. He had put it all on the back burner of his mind, to percolate away, quietly, on its own. When any sort of conclusion was reached, it would pop into his forebrain and alert him. Meanwhile, he could concentrate on more immediate things – namely, the weird conversation he had had with Caro on their return journey from the Consulate, yesterday.

The older lady had initiated the conversation, quite out of the blue.

'Sherlock, dear, I know we haven't known one another for long – not _really_ known – but in that short time I have grown very fond of you and Molly and your two lovely boys.'

She had paused there and he had waited for her to continue but, when she didn't, he had said,

'We are very fond of you, too, Caro. And very grateful for all your help and support.'

She had smiled and reached over to pat his hand but he could tell she was not done. After a bit of silent soul searching, she continued,

'I hope you don't think me impertinent but I wonder if I could ask you a question?'

Sherlock pursed his lips but nodded, curtly.

'You and Molly clearly love one another very much and you have made the commitment of starting a family. But can I presume to ask why you aren't married?'

'We are married,' he replied, rather abruptly, but then went on to say, 'We haven't gone through a formal ceremony but we are married in our own minds. We just don't see the point of submitting to a formal declaration of intent. We are already doing the intended.'

'And what is it about a formal declaration that doesn't appeal to you, if I may ask?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and pursed his lips even more firmly. He was aware that Caro was delving deep into his psyche with this question. He wasn't sure if he wanted to afford her that degree of access. She took that decision away from him, however, with her next utterance.

'Is it because of your parents' marriage – because it was such a sham?'

He was a little nonplussed by her candour but he had to concede she had rather hit the nail on the head.

'A marriage contract is really only a business agreement. It's a statement of ownership – I own this, I own that, I own you. Molly and I do not own one another and we don't wish to. We just are.'

Caro furrowed her brow. She knew what she was about to say next could go either way. But she was not deterred.

'Is that how Molly feels about the marriage contract?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but then closed it again, finding that he really did not know the answer to that question. He realised that he had never actually asked Molly about her views on the subject. He had just assumed that she agreed with him. In truth, they had never discussed marriage. The topic had never arisen. He experienced a cold sinking feeling in his gut and swallowed, nervously.

'Has she said something?' he asked.

Caro reached out and touched his hand again, in a gesture she hoped he would interpret as reassurance.

'If she has said something, I would appreciate it if you would tell me,' he added, clearly not reassured at all.

'Every girl – every woman – however emancipated or liberated or secure in her own relationship, dreams of her wedding day,' Caro replied, gently, kindly and sympathetically.

Sherlock was dumbstruck. What was she saying? Was she telling him that Molly was unhappy with the situation as it existed? Had he missed something? He always missed something. It was his worst flaw.

'Sherlock, please, don't be alarmed. Molly knows you love her and that you love the children and I am quite sure that she has no doubt whatsoever about your commitment to her and to your family. Goodness, no one who sees the two of you together could ever doubt that. You clearly adore her.'

'So why…..why is that not…..enough?'

'Oh, it is! Believe me, it is more than enough, by far. All I am trying – very badly – to explain is that a wedding is a rite of passage to a woman. It marks the transition from one phase of life to another. It is so much more than a business agreement. In a woman's mind, a marriage contract has nothing whatsoever to do with ownership of anything or anyone. It is a public declaration of love. Her wedding day is the one day in a woman's life when she is the most important person in the world. That is why every woman dreams of that day. What happens afterwards – well, what will be will be. Most hope the marriage will last forever. If it doesn't, it does not detract from the significance of the day. On that day, she was still The Bride.'

Sherlock sat back in the car seat and rubbed his bottom lip with one hand. Caro had not really answered his question. But, in a way, she had. And this just complicated things. How could they ever reconcile such a profound difference of opinion? The very concept of 'marriage' was anathema to him. Wasn't it?

No, not marriage per se, just 'weddings'.

The idea of standing up in a room full of people – even friends and family (especially friends and family) – made his blood run cold. He would sooner face a room full of Moriarties, every one armed with a shed load of Semtex and ably assisted by a posse of snipers, than stand up in front of his close friends and associates and declare his love to anyone – even Molly, whom he loved more than life itself. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and stared sightlessly out of the side window, shuddering internally at the very idea. If Molly was secretly dreaming of walking down the aisle, then she was doomed to disappointment. It was Just. Not. Going. To happen.

Lying in bed, now, with Molly still sleeping in his arms, he knew he was going to have to have this conversation with her, not just with himself. He needed to explain why it was so repugnant to him. He knew it was far too late to be talking about this, that he should have been more honest and upfront. But, he had been, hadn't he? He had told her, hadn't he?

Well – again - actually, no. He had told _other_ people and she had been _there_ at the time. Not really the same thing.

But this didn't change anything. They were together, married in every real sense of the word. They had two beautiful children and they had decided to make a third. He felt sure that, all things considered, Molly would understand and she would be content.

He thought about Caro's offer to have the boys for a day or two, while he and Molly did 'couple' stuff. They hadn't actually discussed it – they had been preoccupied with other things – but they would accept Caro's offer and have some time to themselves. And he would take the opportunity to explain to her that he loved and honoured her, above all others and would keep himself only unto her, but a formal wedding ceremony was, and always would be, completely out of the question.

ooOoo

**The dream about Freddie is in response to a challenge from Patemalah21. Hope you like what I did with it, Pat!**

**The 'wedding talk' is inspired MizJoely. So sorry, MJ. Hope I didn't break your heart!**


	29. Loose Ends Chapter 28

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

Molly was both excited and apprehensive about hers and Sherlock's mini-break. It was true that this would be the first time they had gone anywhere without the boys, ever. It wasn't that she was concerned for their welfare. She trusted that Caro would give them the best of care. Freddie would have no problem whatsoever adjusting to the change and even William, now that it had been explained to him, would be fine with it, too.

Mummy and Daddy were going to have a day, a night and another day away. They would stay at the hotel, on their own, over-night and do some 'mum and dad' things during the two days. Before bedtime tomorrow, Auntie Caro would bring him and Freddie back to the hotel and then they would stay there, again, with Mummy and Daddy. Once Caro had explained what he and Freddie would be doing during the two days, he was quite at ease with the situation. He had been away from Mummy and Daddy before, when he used to stay at Uncle Mycroft's. But he shut off that thought, because it reminded him that he hadn't done that since Katy and Charlie came to live there, with Uncle Mycroft.

Molly had packed all of the family's things, to take back to the hotel with them, except for Freddie's and William's night clothes, toiletries, swimming things and another set of day clothes. Caro would bring these back, with the boys, tomorrow. She looked at all the packed bags, waiting to be collected by Giorgio and the driver and taken to the car. Everything was ready. It was nearly time to go. Sherlock was in the Dining Room, with the boys, Caro and Henrique, finishing breakfast. Giorgio appeared at the door, Molly nodded and smiled at him and he began to pick up the bags.

Prolonged goodbyes were never a good idea with children. Keeping it light was the way to go. Sherlock and Molly kissed and hugged the boys, with cheerful smiles and

'Enjoy your two days with Auntie Caro. See you tomorrow!' then left with a light-hearted wave, before looking at one another with the same unspoken thought. Sherlock took Molly's hand and squeezed it.

'They will be OK. And if there are any problems, Caro has both our mobile numbers.'

'I know,' Molly replied. 'I just need to get used to the idea of being without them.'

They were warmly welcomed back to the hotel. Molly had the distinct impression that the management had been concerned that they would cancel their booking and move out. The Duty Manager himself came out to meet and greet and to assure them that no members of the press would get past their security. Sherlock handled it all with his usual suave, aloofness, with that air of polite disdain, which seemed to come so naturally to someone of his class, and they were soon in the lift and on their way back to their penthouse suite.

When they re-entered the sitting room, after what had only been a couple of days' absence, Molly had the distinct impression of homecoming. The rooms had been scrupulously cleaned, in the meantime, and all the bed linen changed. The belongings they had left behind were exactly where they had left them but had been lifted, cleaned under and put back. The bellboy placed their bags in the middle of the floor and departed, with a polite smile.

Sherlock looked at her and said,

'Isn't it quiet?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'and empty.'

He looked at his watch and then announced,

'Well, it will be even more empty in a minute. Let's leave the unpacking. If we want to fit in all the sightseeing that we've planned, we need to get going straight away.'

They had discussed that morning where they would like to go, what they would like to see, things that would not really appeal to the boys. This was a rare opportunity to do purely grown-up things in a beautiful city that they were both itching to explore.

Although Sherlock had been to Rio before, he was hardly in any position to take in any of its history or culture and that was something he was now keen to put right. He and Molly took the lift back to the foyer and stopped at the gift shop to buy a guide book, which he perused with his usual scorching intensity during the cab ride to Sao Bento Monastery, their first port of call. The relatively plain exterior of this Seventeenth Century monastery belied the opulent nature of its interior, which was almost dripping with gilded carvings and paintings – most especially the fantastically elaborate alter, which resembled a glittering, golden stair case – a stairway to Heaven.

Molly walked around inside of the building, almost open-mouthed, unable to take in the mass of detailed carvings and sumptuous decorations, whilst Sherlock explained the origins of some of the decorations and the meaning of some of the symbols. She was always astounded by his capacity to absorb and retain information. He had only seemed to skim-read the guide book but he knew a huge amount about the history of the monastery. So much so that a couple of random sightseers seemed to mistake him for a tour guide and began to follow them around, something which she found hysterically funny and about which he was less amused.

Their next stop was Nossa Senhora de Candelaria, Rio's most impressive church, just a short walk from the monastery, through the Old Town, and built during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century. Here, Sherlock related to her the possibly mythical story of the ship, called the Candelaria, which almost sank in a storm at sea and told how the Spanish sailors, on reaching the safe haven of Rio de Janeiro, fulfilled their vow, made at the height of the storm, to dedicate a chapel to Our Lady of Candelaria in thanks for their safe deliverance. The tiny chapel had since been redesigned and added to and gone through many developments until it was now a huge three-aisle church with an elaborate façade in the Baroque style, with Neo-classical details.

Splendid though the building was, Molly thought she probably would have preferred the original, simple chapel that was built from love and gratitude, rather than the modern incarnation, which she felt was a statement of wealth and power.

On leaving the church, they strolled hand in hand to Praca XV de Novembro, the square of the Fifteenth of November, a site originally occupied by a convent, built in 1590 by the Carmelite fathers, which then became the property of the Portuguese Crown and was transformed into a royal palace. The square acquired its contemporary name when Brazil declared itself an independent republic, on 15th November 1822. Many important historical events in Rio's history had taken place, in this square, including the coronation of Brazil's two Emperors, Pedro I and Pedro II, the abolition of slavery and the deposition of Emperor Dom Pedro II in 1889.

The thing Molly found most impressive about the square was the absolutely enormous tree, – one of many though none so big - right in the centre of the square, which provided shade from the hot South American sun, and some nice benches on which to sit and eat the ice cream that Sherlock bought for her, from the seller with the little ice cream cart, peddling her wares to the tourists and locals alike.

Suitably refreshed, they walked around the Imperial Palace, built in the Eighteenth Century, in the style of a Portuguese manor house, as a residence for the Governors, when Brazil was still a colony of the Portuguese Empire. This building, now a cultural centre, dominated the square – though not so much as the tree did, in Molly's eyes.

Finally, they walked down Uruguaiana Street to Carioca Square and the Metropolitan Cathedral, or the _Catedral de São Sebastião do Rio de Janeiro,_ the church of the patron saint of Rio. Unlike all the other churches they had visited that day, this one was very modern in design, having been built over a fifteen year period in the 1960's and 1970's, by the architect, Edgar Fonceca. To Molly, it rather resembled one of the ancient Mayan pyramids or a ziggurat, from the outside. Inside, it was a huge cone, with enormous stained glass windows casting patches of coloured sunlight on the hordes of visitors inside. Its cavernous interior boasted a standing capacity of twenty thousand people.

Molly was pleased that Sherlock opted for a cab ride back to the hotel. She was feeling a little foot-weary after their walking tour, though she had greatly enjoyed having her own private tour guide, who included hand-holding and ice cream buying as part of the service.

As they entered their suite, he declared,

'I've booked a table for dinner at eight o'clock. That gives you just over two hours to get ready. D'you think you can manage that?'

'Of course,' she retorted, and batted him on the arm with the back of her hand. 'Can you?'

She ran into the bedroom, before he could reply, and was about to lock herself in the en suite when she remembered that her toiletries were all in a bag on the sitting room floor. She was forced to make an undignified return to the scene of battle, only to find Sherlock standing there, holding out her toiletries bag. She took it and gave a goofy grin, which reminded him so much of the Molly he had first met, all those years ago, that he was sorely tempted to sweep her up in his arms and take her, right there, on the sitting room rug. But he resisted that urge. He had planned this evening very thoroughly and with no margin for error. There would be plenty of opportunity for 'that' later.

ooOoo

They were dining at Antiquarius, a very exclusive restaurant which specialised in traditional Portuguese cuisine. Caro had recommended it as the 'best restaurant in Rio' and, being well known to the owner and the maître, had booked a table for two, even at such short notice.

Royalty, pop stars, and Brazilian celebrities frequented Antiquarius, enjoying the rich Portuguese dishes and desserts and the discreet ambiance of the antique décor and furnishings.

Codfish, a favourite staple of Portuguese cuisine in Rio, was always on the menu but many of their specialist dishes, such as seafood _açorda_ , were typical of the cuisine of Alentejo, in Portugal, the original home of the owner. This herb-seasoned broth, thickened with bread, was a renowned highlight of the menu which also boasted a seafood _cataplana_, the signature seafood stew of the Algarve region of southern Portugal.

The wine list featured rare labels from Beira and Alentejo in Portugal, as well as a good selection of French wines but, not surprisingly, it exceled in Port.

Prior to moving to Brazil, at the time of the Carnation Revolution, had kept an inn, in Elvas, near the Spanish border. In Antiquarius, he had reproduced the ambiance of that upmarket hostelry, which had been the site of many diplomatic meetings, some of them top secret, in the build-up to the revolution.

When Molly and Sherlock arrived, they were escorted to their table, in a discreet corner of the restaurant, by the maître himself, and presented with the menu and wine list, written in both Portuguese and English. Molly had taken considerable care with her appearance for this special evening. It had occurred to her that, despite the fact that she and Sherlock had been together as a couple for more than two years, this was the first time they had ever been on a date - their relationship had sort of skipped that stage – so she had dressed for the occasion.

She was wearing her designer dress, complete with shoes and clutch bag but minus the hat and the gloves, which were more suited to the garden party environment. She had put her hair into a French pleat and used a minimal amount of makeup, as advised by the hotel beautician, in order to enhance the natural quality of her skin, not hide it.

Sitting across the table from her, under the subdued mood lighting of the restaurant, as Molly looked through the menu and pursed her lips at the prices, Sherlock was reminded why he had fallen in love with this ingénue. She was so completely artless, so utterly lacking in pretension. She was and always would be her own person.

They both chose their starter and main course and Sherlock selected a suitable wine, which was served by the sommelier, and they were left alone.

'Goodness, this is such a posh place,' Molly giggled. 'Mr Holmes, are you trying to seduce me?'

He raised his hands in a gesture of outrage, matched by his facial expression.

'Miss Hooper! The very idea!' he replied.

Reaching across the table, he placed one hand over one of hers and plaited their fingers together. His eyes took on a distracted cast and Molly wondered what thought had suddenly slipped into his forebrain to produce this subtle change in his demeanour. She was just about to ask him what he was thinking when he spoke, hesitantly, wrinkling his brow.

'Molly, I know we've never really talked about this – in fact we've never talked about it at all – and this is probably quite remiss of us but I think the time has come for us to do so. The time is long overdue, actually, but the subject has just never come up, which is no excuse but perhaps a valid reason.'

The fact that he was doing his Hugh Grant impression told her that he was well outside his comfort zone with the topic of this conversation – whatever that might be, since it was still not remotely obvious to her. She had learned, from experience, that at times like this it was best to leave him to work it out for himself, to not try to prompt him or assist him in any way, as this would just disrupt his thought processes and make it even harder for him to get to the point.

His eye movements showed her that he was searching for the right words to express what he needed to say and she noted the moment when he seemed to find what he sought. He took a sharp breath in and then looked just to the left of her eyes and said,

'How do you feel about marriage?'

Molly was completely taken aback. Of all the things he might have said, this was absolutely the last thing she would ever have expected. From the very beginning of their relationship, it had been implicit that he was completely against any sort of formal arrangement between them. He had voiced this opinion on numerous occasions – most recently at Caro's garden party – and Molly had long since accepted that, along with all his other foibles, this attitude to formal marriage was just part of who he was, part of the man she had fallen in love with.

She was secure in the knowledge that he loved her and their children, that he would always be faithful to her and that, in his mind, they were already married so a formal statement of that fact was superfluous to requirements. She could live with that. She might occasionally yearn to wear 'the long, white dress of love' and stand before an alter to make that public declaration before a congregation of their closest friends and family but these were fleeting moments. For the most part, it was of no consequence to her that they did not have 'a piece of paper' or a band of yellow metal binding them to one another.

But what if he had changed his mind?

As the dawn of realisation rose in her eyes, she opened her mouth to form an astonished 'O' and then broke into a smile of sheer joy.

'Of course I would love to marry you!' she gasped.

In the very moment that the words were spoken, she realised her mistake. The expression of shock and – yes – horror on his face told her that she had over-interpreted his intention. Her face instantly reflected that expression back at him.

'Oh! God! No! I mean…..no! Sorry!' she began to gabble, thrown back to the old days by her embarrassment, humiliation and – she had to admit it – disappointment. He was not proposing, not at all. She had no idea why he had suddenly, after all this time, decided to have this conversation but that was all it was intended to be – a conversation.

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and the look of stunned surprise on his face, along with his complete lack of any verbal response to either her faux pas or her apology only served to deepen her discomfort. She pulled her hand out of his grasp, pushed her chair back, rose from her seat and looked around franticly, for a sign for the 'Ladies'.

With an enormous surge of relief, she spotted the green, illuminated sign in the far corner of the restaurant and hurried towards it. There lay sanctuary, escape and seclusion. She could lock herself in a cubicle and hide her shame from curious eyes. It was the foremost thought in her mind and it aided her navigation between the tables in the busy restaurant. Mere moments later, as she pushed through the outer door and past the startled restroom attendant, she fixed her gaze on the nearest vacant cubicle and dived into it, closing the door and shooting the bolt before crashing down onto the toilet seat, burying her face in her hands and bursting into tears.

ooOoo

**A/N: As you all know, I have never been to Rio, or Brazil or even South America (unless Mexico counts, but I don't think it does and I only went there for a day anyway) so I am indebted for all my tourist information to Wikipedia, Viator, the Insider's Guide to Rio, and Lonely Planet.**

**All the places are real but names have been deleted to protect the innocent.**

**I am also most grateful to the fabulous Joni Mitchell for the loan of two of her lines: - **

**'the long white dress of love' from Song for Sharon, Hejira, 1976 **

**'piece of paper' from My Old Man, Blue, 1971**


	30. Loose Ends Chapter 29

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

Sherlock sat in a stunned stupor and watched Molly disappear from view. What on Earth had just happened? He had clearly done something to give Molly the impression that he was asking her to marry him. He had no idea what that could have been. He scanned back through his immediate memory, looking for clues.

They had had a lovely day, full of special moments like sitting under the tree, eating ice cream; the other tourists thinking he was a tour guide had been annoying at first but Molly had shown him the funny side. She had dressed in her garden party outfit and done her hair, so she looked like Audrey Hepburn but far more beautiful, and they had come to this exclusive restaurant, been given a private table, by the window, affording an amazing view of Rio. And then he had taken her hand.

Yes, that was it! He had given her a special day and brought her to this romantic location and held her hand across the table. No wonder she thought he was proposing! Oh, God, what an IDIOT he was!

He stood up and walked in the direction she had taken. The maître gave him a quizzical look and he shrugged apologetically but continued on to the door of the Ladies' Room and pushed it open.

'Sir! Please! You cannot come in here!' the panicking rest room attendant squawked, in Portuguese.

'Senhora, please, I need to speak to my wife. I've upset her. Please wait outside and don't let anyone else come in, would you?' he pleaded with her.

The girl took in his concerned expression and she relented. With a sympathetic smile, she left the restroom and stood outside, barring the door.

The sound of someone tapping on the toilet cubicle door had broken through Molly's misery and she heard a female voice speaking in Portuguese. The voice sounded gentle and kind and sympathetic but Molly could not bring herself to respond. She hoped the person would just give up and go away but she suspected they would not.

Then the voice changed, became alarmed, insistent and Molly feared someone would start banging on the door and demanding that she come out. But she heard another voice and her stomach dropped into her shoes. Sherlock was in the rest room, speaking to the attendant in Portuguese. The woman stopped shrieking and everything went quiet.

Sherlock leaned his head against the closed cubicle door, closed his eyes and said, quietly,

'Molly, please, open the door.'

There was no reply.

'Please, Molly, open the door, will you?'

Molly lifted her face from her hands, eyes screwed tight shut and mascara smeared down her cheeks, and sobbed,

'I don't want to come out.'

He pressed the flat of his hand to the door and spoke gently.

'You don't have to come out but, please, let me come in.'

Molly considered that option. The toilet cubicle was quite spacious, as these things go, so space was not an issue. She really did not want him to see her looking like this but she was suddenly reminded of an afternoon, not very long ago, when she had knocked at a locked bathroom door and he, wrapped in a bed sheet and traumatised by his encounter with that bitch, The Woman, had let her in. She reached forward and slid the bolt across then sat back down on the toilet seat.

Sherlock heard the bolt slide and felt the door sag inwards. He pushed it open and slipped inside, closing and re-bolting it behind him. He went down on one knee, reached out a hand, placing it, softly, on the exposed nape of Molly's neck, and rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

'Molly. I am so sorry. Please, don't cry,' he begged,

'I am so stupid,' she hiccupped, as her breath caught in her throat, causing her shoulders to jerk.

'No!' he exclaimed, then moderated his tone and repeated, gently, 'no, you are not stupid. I am the stupid one. I am a socially incompetent moron, an utter cretin, a damned idiot!'

She reached out a hand and grasped his sleeve, shaking her head but still not looking up.

'Don't talk like that about yourself,' she whispered.

'Well, someone needs to say it and I know you won't. You are far too forgiving.'

He ventured to run his hand down to rub her back, feeling the soft fabric of her beautiful dress under his fingers. Twice she had worn that dress and twice she had finished up in tears, and both times it had been his fault. He was an idiot! God, where was John Watson, when he needed him? That's what he had so depended upon – John Watson, telling him when things were 'a bit not good'. Well, this was a lot not good! He was a child in a man's body, someone who needed a social mentor, someone who needed help to keep his size 11 foot out of his great, fat mouth.

'Sherlock.'

The sound of her soft voice snapped him out of his silent self-castigating rant and he looked into her liquid eyes.

'I know how you feel about marriage and I respect that. I've said this before but I'm saying it again. I fell in love with the real Sherlock Holmes, not the one in my imagination. I love every single part of you, and that includes your views on justice, child care, loyalty and marriage. I don't know what came over me. I got a bit carried away in the moment…..'

He placed a light fingertip on her lips to halt the torrent of words then took her jaw in both his hands and pressed a tremulous kiss to that soft mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

'Well, I think I answered your question, anyway,' she sighed.

'Yes, you did,' he replied, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head against hers.

Five or ten minutes later, they emerged from the Ladies' Room, hand in hand, much to the relief of the restroom attendant and the Maître, who had both been watching the door with a growing sense of alarm. The couple returned to their table and retook their seats.

Molly had cleaned the smeared mascara from her cheeks and cooled her swollen eyes with cold water but she was glad of the strategically placed pot plants that concealed them from the other diners. The waiter, who had been on tenterhooks, wondering how long the young couple would be ensconced in the Ladies' Room, made eye contact with Sherlock, who nodded, to signal for the first course to be served.

Once the starters had been placed in front of them and the waiter had retreated, they both picked at their food, their appetites suppressed by heightened emotion.

Sherlock put down his fork and took up the theme that had caused the sudden interruption of their first date.

'I had no idea how important it was to you,' he said.

'It's not,' she insisted. But the look he gave her curtailed the denial.

'Molly, it clearly is. You accepted the fait accompli out of respect for my opinion, which you obviously don't share. And I, selfishly, let you do that. It makes me wonder what other of my beliefs I've forced upon you.'

'Sherlock, stop that! Stop that right now! I will not sit here and allow you to say such things. I am a grown woman and I made my choices of my own free will. No one forced me to do anything. I chose my own destiny and you can have no idea how often I pinch myself and thank my fairy godmother for putting you in my life,' she declared, vehemently.

Stretching across the table, she clasped his large hand, with its long, elegant fingers, in her small, dainty one.

'Please, forget what I said. Delete it from your hard drive. We are fine, just as we are. We don't need a piece of paper to tell us how we feel about one another. And we don't need to stand up in front of anyone but each other to declare our love and commitment, OK?'

She held him with a fierce stare until he dropped his gaze and nodded then she squeezed his hand and released it.

'I'm not that hungry, actually,' she admitted.

'Me, neither,' he agreed. 'Do you think they do doggy bags?'

The look on the face of the waiter when Sherlock put that question to him told them that he had never been asked that particular one before. He scuttled over to the maître and gabbled in the ear of the man, who listened with a look of growing incredulity and then gave curt instructions to the waiter, who disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, as the maître approached the couple's table.

'Oh-oh, we're for it,' Sherlock muttered, which made Molly giggle, in spite of herself.

'Senhor,' the maître began, addressing Sherlock but giving a short bow of acknowledgement toward Molly. 'Is there a problem with the food or with the service?'

'No, not at all,' Sherlock replied, in his most charming manner, 'My wife is not feeling well so we need to return to our hotel but we will no doubt be hungry later so we would like to take our meal with us. I do hope you understand.' As he spoke, Sherlock fished his wallet from his inside pocket and, flipping it open, removed his AmEx Gold card and placed it on the crisp white tablecloth, placing on top of it a large denomination bank note.

The maître took one look, picked them both up, said 'Of course, sir' and walked smartly away.

Molly and Sherlock held hands, sipped their wine and talked in quiet voices as they waited for the food to be brought out.

'Sherlock, why did you bring up the subject of marriage tonight?' she asked, and placed a second hand on top of his, when he winced at the memory of it.

He tilted his head to one side, while he debated whether or not to answer truthfully but, at last, he did.

'It was something Caro said. She asked me why we weren't married and I told her my reasons. Then she asked me if you felt the same and I couldn't answer because I'd never asked you how you felt. So I asked her if you had said something and she didn't say you had but she told me what a wedding day means, from the woman's perspective.'

Molly grimaced and shook her head.

'That was very sweet of Caro and I know she meant well but she really should not have interfered. This is our relationship and we understand each other. No one else knows how we fit together, how we give and take.'

'Yes, but Molly, it seems to me that you do all the giving and I do all the taking,' he declared and his face twisted with the pain of that statement.

'That is utter rubbish!' she exclaimed, with such vehemence that he blinked.

'Look how much you have changed, since we first met. You are a million miles away from the man who used to flirt with me, shamelessly, just to gain access to St. Bart's facilities. Who could have imagined, back then, that we would ever make a home together, as a couple, and bring children into this world? You have given me so much. I could never repay you.'

He reached out a hand and brushed her cheek, wordlessly, since he could not trust his voice at that moment.

The waiter appeared, with their food in polystyrene boxes, wrapped in cooking foil, and the portable chip and pin machine, with Sherlock's card already inserted, so he paid the bill and gave the waiter a generous tip, too.

The couple then rose and walked back through the dining area, pausing by the Ladies' Room, while Molly popped inside to thank the attendant for her kindness and gave her a tip, also. Honour restored, they exited the building and climbed into a cab, for the silent return journey to their hotel, fingers still entwined, each thinking their own thoughts.

Back in the privacy of their hotel suite, they opened the bedroom curtains and windows wide, and retired to bed where they made love, tenderly, surrounded by the sound and the smell of the ocean. And both wished that their union be blessed with a baby girl, a sister for William and Freddie and a daughter for them, to make their perfect little family complete.

ooOoo

**Big thanks to all my readers and reviewers, everyone who has faved and followed my story and me, so far. It is SO important to get feedback and I always reply to reviewers because you are the people who let me know when I'm doing it right - or wrong, whichever the case may be! All comments are greatly appreciated.**


	31. Loose Ends Chapter 30

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Sorry this one took a while but it's here now!**

**Chapter Thirty**

Sherlock kissed Molly awake. It was still dark outside. That was the point.

'Molly, it's time to wake up,' he whispered, as she stirred and stretched.

'What time is it?' she asked, in a sleep-filled voice.

'Four thirty.'

He rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He would shower and shave while Molly was still waking up and then she would have the bathroom to herself. They had planned this early morning outing, yesterday. It was their one and only chance to do this, with the boys in Caro's care.

The timing was crucial. Sunrise would be at six thirty three and they needed to be in position well before then. They left the hotel at five thirty and stepped straight into a yellow taxi, which took them, though the _Tijuca_ Rain Forest, to the coach park near the foot of Corcovado hill. The security guards gave them suspicious looks, as they approached but were clearly expecting the Hooper-Holmes couple – courtesy of Caro and Henrique and their wonderful connections – since, when they presented their passports to check their identities, they were waved through. The cab drove on, up the dark road through the forest, climbing steadily, until they were within striking distance of the summit. Sherlock asked the driver to stop and let them out. He paid the driver, who turned his cab around in the road and drove away.

They set off walking up the hill, which, though a relatively short distances, was quite steep and surrounded by forest. It was still pretty dark but the roadway was sufficiently open to make it possible to see their way and there was no traffic on the road at all, since the park was still a couple of hours from the official public opening time.

It was quite chilly and became more so, as they climbed higher. Sherlock would have been glad of his Belstaff coat but had to make do with layers of two tee shirts, a button down work shirt, that Molly had insisted he bring to Brazil 'just in case', and his heaviest jacket. Molly was similarly layered, and the brisk walking pac,e set by him and his long legs, ensured that they were not cold.

Up ahead, they could see their target, perched on its huge base, lit from below and facing out over Rio and into the bay, the statue of _Cristo Redentor_, Christ the Redeemer, situated at the top of Corcovado, 2,300 feet above the city.

It was the largest Art Deco statue in the world, being 130 feet tall and with an arm span of 98 feet. It was constructed of reinforced concrete, faced with sandstone and had stood on this spot since 1931. In the dark, because the statue itself was lit and the mountain it stood on was dark, it seemed to float, in mid-air, over the land.

As they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the first viewing platform, the light of dawn was just seeping over the horizon, out in the Atlantic Ocean. It was a little misty, below the mountain top, so the dawn light effect was dreamlike and quite mystical. At this altitude, however, the air was clear and the wind was strong. It blew their hair back off their faces and flapped their clothing around them.

There were two escalators leading up to the base of the statue but these were static, at this time of the day, so they climbed up the first long flight of stone steps, paused to rest their legs, which were protesting at the length of the climb, then took the second long flight to the base of the statue and walked around it and down the extended staggered flight, to the viewing platform that over-looked the bay, facing toward the rising sun.

Neither spoke, as Sherlock stood in back of Molly, his arms wrapped around her, and she leaned back against him, behind the low stone parapet of the platform, gazing out at the view, absorbing every aspect of this unique experience. The ground dropped vertically, for several hundred feet, immediately below them, since the platform was set on the very edge of the bare rock on which the statue stood. The Tijuca National Park spread out, around the rock, like a huge green skirt, flowing down toward the town in Guanabara Bay.

As the sun rose, it produced an orange glow along the edge of the horizon, which contrasted with the deep blues and purples of the sky and the ocean. The mist and low cloud reflected back the colours and a rainbow curved away, over to their right, as the light caught the droplets of moisture in the cool morning air.

Molly gasped at the stunning beauty of it all, feeling almost as though they were the only people alive in the world. This, she imagined, is what the Apocalypse might look like. Were it not for the darkened houses far below, just becoming visible as the morning mist began to dissipate, she could have believed they had been transported back to a time of prehistory, such was the raw, primordial nature of the event.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the sun rose higher above the horizon, the orange, gold and red faded to pink and the sky and ocean paled to a clear, cerulean blue. They had to shade their eyes from the intense light. Sherlock manoeuvred them round to face the statue, bathed now in the rose and gold of the morning, which caused it to glow, as though burning from within. Molly, still unable to find adequate words to describe her feelings, became aware of a sound emanating, it seemed, from Sherlock's chest. She realised he was singing to himself, quietly, under his breath, lost in his own thoughts, almost oblivious to her presence.

Sherlock rarely sang, though he loved to listen to lieder. The only time she had ever heard him sing was to the boys, mostly Freddie, to lull him to sleep, when he was a tiny baby. But he had a pleasant, tuneful, baritone voice. She listened intently to the song, which was slow and mournful, like a dirge. The words were not modern English, but were sufficiently similar to it that she could understand the meaning. They might have been Old English or even a regional dialect she was not familiar with. But the song itself just seemed to fit the situation and expressed how she was feeling, to perfection.

She waited until he finished, then turned to look up into his face and said,

'That was beautiful. What was it? I've never heard it before.'

'It's called The Lyke-Wake Dirge. I learnt it at school,' he replied, ducking his head, self-consciously. 'A line in the refrain goes '_And Christe receive thy saule._' The statue reminded me of it.'

'Is it Old English?' she asked, surprised yet again by odd things he stored in that 'funny old head', as Mrs Hudson would say.

'It's an old Yorkshire dialect. We learned it for a House Concert. It's not a Harrow Song. We just sang it, in my Fifth Year.'

Molly wrapped her arms around his waist and he looped his around her shoulders, the sun warming his back but the wind cooling them both.

'Let's find some shelter,' he suggested and, taking her by the hand, led the way up the steps toward the base of the statue. There was a small chapel housed in the base but it did not open until eight o'clock and it was still only seven, so they stood on the leeward side of the edifice and took in the view from there. On a clear day, one could see the city of Rio de Janeiro, the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, "Sugar Loaf" mountain, the forest, and the bay.

On this day, the air being less clear, lower down the mountain, they could discern some of these features. Sherlock pointed out an area not far from the Tijuca National Park, where the streets were less distinct and the buildings more random and ramshackle in design.

'That's the favela,' he explained. 'I'd like to take you there, to show you where I hid for five days, show you where Ru'e and Maria live.'

'I'd love to see it,' she replied.

ooOoo

The first cog train arrived just after eight o'clock and several people disembarked. Unsurprisingly, Molly and Sherlock were the only ones to board it for the decent, through the verdant forest, to the station at the base of the mountain. This took about twenty minutes and, when they alighted, they approached a waiting cab and Sherlock asked to be taken to the favela. The cab driver laughed, heartily, and told Sherlock there were lots of lovely places to see in Rio. What did he and his lovely lady want with the favela?

Sherlock explained that he had business there and fixed the cabbie with a piercing look, which convinced him not to ask any more questions. The man agreed to take them most of the way, but – like Raoul, on Sherlock's previous visit to Ru'e and Maria's home – he would not drive into the favela itself. Sherlock accepted that condition and he and Molly got into the cab.

In the early morning traffic, it took over half an hour to reach the point where the cab stopped and the driver declared he could go no further. Sherlock paid the man and gave him a good tip, then he took Molly's hand and they set off, walking through the narrow streets and alley ways, toward their destination. They attracted curious looks from the passers-by but Sherlock strode on with such confidence that no one even considered accosting them. He remembered the route from the time before and led them deeper and deeper into the favela.

Molly looked around in awe and with not a little concern. She had seen poverty before but nothing that came anywhere close to this. The buildings, literally hand-made, were constructed from recycled wooden, plastic and corrugated metal sheets, hand-made mud bricks, canvas tarpaulins and other second hand materials. They looked as though one gust of wind would blow them flat but Sherlock knew they were far sturdier than they seemed.

Eventually, they passed along a narrow path, between the buildings and then took a right turn that took them down a slope and through a gap between two ramshackle shacks, to a fenced yard around a sort of shed – the home of Ru'e and Maria.

'Here it is, the Street Kids home. This is where Rocky brought me; where I hid for five days, while he arranged for the Uncontacted to take me through the forest to Asuncion in Paraguay. I don't remember much about that part,' he added, a little ruefully. 'Ru'e will be at the garage, I would think, but Maria should be home.'

He called out, to announce their arrival, as he opened the gate and they passed through into the yard. Once inside the enclosed space, they stood and waited for Maria to come out of the shed. They waited a whole minute but nobody came.

'They must be out,' Molly said, shrugging.

'No, they never all go out at the same time,' Sherlock replied, his brow wrinkling with a growing unease. Ru'e and Maria were not the only people living here and someone always stayed home, to keep a presence in the property, to discourage intruders.

'Maria!' he called, loudly, and they each cocked an ear toward the open doorway to the structure, listening for a response. They both heard it at the same time – a strangled cry coming from inside the shack - and they rushed to the entrance and looked in. It was dark inside, having no windows and just this one entrance, so they couldn't see anything to begin with, until something moved in the shadows, toward the back of the shack and both Molly and Sherlock hurried over to the pile of mats, on which lay Maria.

As they came near to her, they could see she was lying on her side, curled in the foetal position, on top of what looked like a large sheet of brown paper and that was exactly what it was. They both took one look and knew immediately that Maria was in labour and, by the perspiration soaking her clothes and hair, it was clear that she had been so for quite some time.

Molly's medical training kicked into action.

'Sherlock, ask her how long she has been in labour,' she ordered.

Crouching on the dirt floor, next to the pile of mats, Sherlock spoke gently in Portuguese. The girl answered, breathlessly, and he translated.

'She had pain in her lower back in the night but didn't know she was in labour. The others left early this morning – about four hours ago - and then the contractions started

'We need to find out how far on she is. Ask her if I can examine her – just visually, that's all.' Molly was painfully aware that she did not have any surgical gloves so an internal examination could introduce infection into the birth canal.

Sherlock passed on the request, reminding Maria that Molly was a doctor. The girl's response was cut off by the occurrence of a contraction. She gasped and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing so hard that he feared she might break his metacarpals.

'I need to push!' she squealed, through clenched teeth.

'She says she needs to push,' he gasped, trying to ignore the pain in his hand.

'Tell her to pant! Like this!' Molly modelled panting and Sherlock told Maria to copy her, which she did, until the contraction subsided. They all relaxed for a moment and Maria released his hand, which he rubbed and flexed, to check it was still in working order.

Maria rolled onto her back, so that Molly could check on her progress. Sherlock sat down on the dirt floor, next to Maria's head, and took hold of her hand, so that his thumb lay across her palm, wrapping his fingers round her wrist. She could squeeze his thumb to her heart's content, without risking breaking it.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his mobile phone but was not surprised to see he had no signal. That had been the case last time he was here. There would be no calling for assistance. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and reached over to brush the damp hair off Maria's face then placed his hand on top of her head, rubbing her temple with his thumb and smiling, he hoped, in a reassuring manner.

Molly lifted the girl's shift up to her hips and gently separated her knees, to examine her cervix. Even in the dim light, it was evident that the foetus's head was just beginning to crown. Birth was imminent.

'Maria, do you have any clean towels or sheets?' Molly asked and Sherlock repeated.

Maria reached for a bag that was lying on the mats, close at hand. Molly took it and looked inside. It contained an assortment of cotton and terry towels and a woollen blanket – and a small plastic zip lock bag. Molly took this out and gave a small, surprised 'oh!' It was a Birthing Kit.

Moly had heard about these. St Bart's had raised money for the charity that produced them. They were specifically made for use in developing countries where women frequently found themselves giving birth without medical supervision. They contained the bare minimum for a safe delivery – a plastic sheet, a bar of soap, two pairs of surgical gloves, a sterile scalpel blade, three cords and five gauze swabs. Molly wondered where Maria had obtained it from but this was hardly the time to ask. She was just grateful she had.

As Molly began to open the kit, Maria made a groaning sound, rolled onto her side again and curled back into the foetal position. She was having another contraction.

'Tell her to pant again, Sherlock, not to push. This baby is about to be born but I need to prep the area so if she can pant, it will stave off the delivery for a a bit longer.'

He passed on the instruction and, maintaining eye contact with the young mother-to-be, he joined in with the panting, in a show of solidarity. The contraction climaxed and began to subside. Maria sighed and sank back onto the mats, closing her eyes and breathing in deep gulps of air. Molly, in the meantime, had put on a pair of the gloves and partly opened the plastic sheet.

'Ask her what her most comfortable position is. I'm guessing it's on her side, but I just need to make sure.'

He asked the question and got the expected answer.

'OK. I have to lay this sheet out under your hips, Maria, so the baby can be delivered onto a sterile surface,' she said, holding up the sheet. As Sherlock translated, Maria nodded and rolled to the side so Molly could lay out the sheet, then rolled back onto it.

'Right, sweetheart, I need to be able to see the baby being born so I'm going to have to put your leg on my shoulder, understand?'

Maria nodded and allowed Molly to lift her left leg and brace it on her right shoulder. Sherlock watched, in awe, as Molly and Maria exchanged a look which spoke volumes of shared understanding. Molly smiled and gave a small nod and Maria smiled back and seemed to grow in confidence, reassured that everything was going to be just fine.

'OK, the next contraction, you need to take a deep breath and push as long and as hard as you can.'

Maria nodded and then her grip on Sherlock's thumb increased, as the next contraction began.

ooOoo

**Huge thanks to Seven World Wonders website for the information about the statue of Christ the Redeemer and to Stanislav Sedov and Dmitriy Moiseenko, the two hang-gliders, who filmed, there, the 360 degree view of sunrise, on which I based my description. Rather you than me, guys!**


	32. Loose Ends Chapter 31

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty One**

'Push, Maria! Good girl! That's good! Keep pushing!' Molly encouraged, as she watched the baby's head crown a little more and then recede again, as the contraction faded. From her own experiences of birth, Molly surmised that three or four more contractions should see the baby's head delivered. She explained this to Maria, via Sherlock's translation service.

'You need to push right through every bit of the contraction, like you have been doing. You are such a brave girl! You've done it all on your own and your baby is nearly here!'

The contractions were only a minute or so apart, now, and Molly was amazed at how well Maria was managing, with absolutely no pain relief at all. Squeezing Sherlock's thumb seemed to help, as well as pushing against her shoulder, but the young girl had made hardly any noise, other than sustained grunts and some heavy breathing. As the next contraction began, Molly saw her rally all her resources and begin to push again.

Then, quite suddenly, taking both Molly and Sherlock by surprise, the girl pulled her leg from Molly's shoulder and pushed herself into a squatting position, placing her hands on Sherlock's shoulders and bearing down as hard as she could. Molly recovered first and pushed the plastic sheet underneath the girl's buttocks. Sherlock shifted his position, so that Maria could lean against him and Molly lifted the girl's shift and peered underneath, just in time to see the baby's head emerge.

The infant's face looked a little blue but not abnormally so. It was a small, round head, with a shock of black hair, plastered to its skull.

'Your baby's head is born, Maria!' she announced. 'One more push and it will all be here!'

Maria lifted her face from Sherlock's shoulder long enough to nod, briefly, then braced herself again and began to push, once more. Molly guided the baby's head and manoeuvred its shoulders, one by one, through the birth canal and then, all at once, it emerged, along with a gush of fluid, and flopped onto the plastic sheeting.

'It's here, Maria! You've done it!' Molly cried and the new mother lowered herself, carefully, back onto the pile of mats and looked down at the tiny infant, lying between her knees.

Molly snatched a piece of cotton cloth from the bag and began to wipe the baby's face, then used one of the gauze squares to clean inside its mouth. The cord was still attached, so it was still receiving oxygen from its mother but, as Molly cleaned out its mouth and nose, it took its first independent breath and uttered the sound every mother wants to hear – its first cry. Pulling out the woollen blanket, Molly scooped up the baby and wrapped it up before handing it to the young mother. Maria took her baby into her arms and gazed into its face, still squashed and wrinkled from the birthing process.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Oh, God! I forgot to look!' yelped Molly, with an embarrassed giggle. Maria began to open the folds of the blanket and then said,

'Uma garotinha!'

'A little girl,' Sherlock translated, his voice a little husky, from the emotion of the moment.

'A beautiful little girl, just like her mother,' Molly breathed. 'But we need to cut the cord and then deliver the afterbirth.'

She retrieved the Birthing Kit and took out two of the three cords, tying them off, firmly, around the umbilical, leaving a two inch gap in between. She then took the scalpel out of its sterile pack and, with an efficient slice, cut the cord, neatly. Maria was still smiling down at the mewling child in her arms but then she looked up at Molly and grimaced.

'Are you having another contraction?'

The girl nodded.

'You're delivering the placenta. Sherlock, take the baby for a minute, would you?'

Sherlock started, as though awoken from a dream, and held out his hands. Maria placed the tiny baby into them and he pulled her into his chest, adjusting his hold to cradle the child in his arms. She looked like a doll, up against him.

Maria delivered the afterbirth and Molly examined it, closely. It was intact, perfectly normal and healthy, which was very good news. She turned to the new mother.

'I need to wash you and your baby. Do you have any hot water?'

Maria rattled off something in Portuguese.

'She has water, left over from last night, but she hasn't lit a fire yet,' Sherlock explained. 'But I can do that.'

He handed the baby back to Maria, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek as he did so, and went to stand up.

'Before you do, Sherlock, can I have your shirt?' Molly asked.

He gave her a puzzled look.

'Maria looks cold. Your shirt will keep her warm,' she explained.

'Of course!' he exclaimed and, shrugging out of his jacket, he took off the shirt and gave it to Molly, then went outside to light the fire and heat some water.

'You need to take off your dress,' Molly explained, with gestures, to help communicate her meaning, pointing out to Maria that her dress was not only damp from sweat but soaked, around the bottom, with amniotic fluid and blood.

'You can put this on,' she added, holding up the shirt. 'It will keep you warm and be as long as a dress on you!'

Maria placed the baby, wrapped up again in the woollen blanket, on the pile of mats and pulled off her dress, over her head, then put on Sherlock's shirt and buttoned it up. Molly helped her to roll up the sleeves.

'It will be easier for you to feed, too,' she added. 'You can just undo the buttons!'

Maria looked down at the buttoned up workshirt and then back at Molly and they both laughed.

ooOoo

Out in the yard, setting the fire, Sherlock was still pretty shell-shocked by the everyday miracle he had just witnessed – played a small part in, even. It was the second birth he had observed and the resilience of even the youngest of women never ceased to amaze him. He could only imagine how painful it must be, to have your whole body wall cramping, squeezing, to expel a baby. To endure that for hours on end and then actually love and cherish the very being that had caused all the pain, well, it made no logical sense at all. But then to willingly go through the whole process again, and again, as so many women did, that showed either utter stupidity or extreme resolve and fortitude – and he really did not suspect the former.

He became aware that he had an audience. A pair of sharp, black eyes were watching him, from just the other side of the yard fence. He looked up and saw a young boy, staring.

'Hello. Do you know Ru'e and Maria?' he asked, still setting the fire and acting as nonchalantly as possible, so as not to scare the child away.

'Maria just had her baby. Ru'e needs to know. Do you know where he works?'

The child hesitated, for a moment, wondering whether to trust this strange, tall, pale man with eyes that changed colour, like the ocean. But, for some reason, he felt he _could_ trust the stranger, who spoke Portuguese like a Brazilian, so he replied,

'Yes, he works at the garage on St Cecilia Street.'

'Can you go there and tell him his wife has had her baby? I'll pay you.' Sherlock put his hand in his jacket pocket and took out a coin, flipping it at the boy, who caught it, reflexively. Safe hands, Sherlock thought. Wicket keeper's hands.

'I'll give you another of those, if you bring him back here.'

The boy looked at the coin, grinned broadly, and scampered off, leaving Sherlock to finish lighting the fire and put on the water to heat, whilst thinking about starting a cricket club at the Children's Centre.

ooOoo

Having checked Maria over, looking for any of the signs that could indicate an adverse reaction to the birthing process - eclampsia, sepsis, post-partum haemorrhage or hematoma being the more dangerous – Molly did a conventional APGAR test on the baby. She had done this, automatically, as she cleared the infant's airways, immediately after birth, and had noted a slight bluish tinge around the lips, indicating mild cyanosis. All the other indicators had been good. Now, as she repeated the test components, she was pleased to see the baby's colour was excellent and her general levels of pulse rate, reflex irritability, activity and respiration were all indicative of a very healthy baby.

She wished she had some means of measuring Maria's blood pressure, other than by observation, but she reminded herself that people had given birth long before such things existed and the human race had not died out. She would be glad when there was some hot water with which to wash both Maria and the new-born. She had done all she could to maintain a sterile environment but she still would feel better if she could wash away all the blood that was still smeared on the infant and down Maria's legs.

The new mother was resting, with her child, on the mats, having removed the sheet of brown paper that she had been lying on. Molly had to admire the resourcefulness of the young girl. The parcel paper had kept all the uterine excretions off the mats, had kept them dry and uncontaminated. Molly wondered why she had not made use of the plastic sheet from the birthing kit, but she would have to wait until Sherlock returned, to ask that question and the many others which she would like answered.

ooOoo

Sherlock's musings were interrupted again, when a woman came charging down the path and through the gate, into the yard, screaming at him, like a South American Valkyrie.

'Who are you? Get away from here! You can't have Maria's baby!' she shrieked and began battering at him with her fists clenched. He parried her blows as best he could, whilst backing away toward the open doorway and trying to be heard above her frantic screeching.

'Senhora, I am a friend! I don't want the baby. I have two of my own! Please, calm down! Ouch!'

Molly and Maria, inside the shack, heard the commotion and Molly stood up, to go out and see what was going on but Sherlock appeared in the doorway, backing away from a short, stout lady who, despite her lack of stature, was managing to land quite a few blows on the unfortunate detective's forearms, raised or lowered, as appropriate, to protect the more delicate parts of his anatomy, which the lady seemed determine to damage.

'Raphaella!' Maria called, from the pile of rugs. It took a couple of attempts to get the woman's attention, by which time both she and Sherlock were inside the shack and Molly had moved forward, arms raised in a placatory gesture, and tried to move between Sherlock and his assailant. The sudden arrival of Molly in her field of vision pulled the woman up short and she looked from one strange white person to the other then, thankfully, noticed Maria reclining on the rugs, holding a bundle in her arms.

'Maria! What is happening? Are you alright? Who are these people?' the woman demanded, rushing to the girl's side.

'It's alright! I'm alright! These are our friends, Holmes and Molly. They helped me to have my baby. They saved the other babies form the traffickers!' Maria declared.

Sherlock stood back, rubbing his bruised arms and making sure Molly stayed between him and the older woman, just in case she decided to come and have another go at him.

'I saw Filipe and he told me a man paid him to go and tell Ru'e that the baby was born. I thought it might be the baby-snatchers,' Raphaella explained, still flustered by her altercation with the hapless Englishman.

'Really, Raphaella! Would they have sent for Ru'e if they wanted to steal my baby? Would they be making a fire, to heat some water?'

'I didn't know what he was doing! I just saw a strange man in your yard!' the older woman protested.

'I'm very grateful to you, Rapha, but you really should apologise to Holmes. I think you have hurt him!'

The woman looked around and Sherlock took another hasty step back, still not sure he was safe.

'I am sorry, senhor. I hope I didn't injure you,' she apologised.

'Not fatally,' he replied, sardonically. Molly rubbed his arm, sympathetically, and tried not to smile – though it was difficult.

'How's the fire coming along?' she asked him, offering him an escape route, if he needed one.

'It's lit but not hot enough, yet, to heat the water. Maybe the Dragon Aunt, there, has some hot water she could spare? She could heat it with her fiery breath!'

Molly gave up the fight and burst out laughing, at that. Maria and Raphaella looked puzzled, wondering what was so amusing.

'Senhora, do you have any hot water to spare? Maria needs it for the baby,' Sherlock ventured, from the safety of Molly's protection.

'Of course, senhor! I will go and fetch it, at once.' The woman jumped up and hurried out of the shack and Sherlock relaxed, visibly.

'Perhaps you could go with her and help to carry the water?' Molly suggested, and dissolved into giggles, again, at the look of alarm on his face.

'Very funny,' he retorted. 'I'll go and check the fire,' and he stalked out of the shack, ducking to clear the low door lintel, whilst trying to preserve some semblance of dignity.

He stepped out into the yard, just in time to see Ru'e running down the slope and hurdling the low gate before skidding to a halt, in front of his friend.

'Maria? Where is she? Is she alright? The baby?' he gabbled.

'Everything is fine, Ru'e! Maria did a great job, with help from Molly. They are inside. And the baby is fine, too. Congratulations, daddy!' Sherlock reassured him.

That comment stopped Ru'e in his tracks and then a broad grin spread across his face. The detective offered his hand and the younger man took it. They shook and Sherlock patted his friend's shoulder.

'Go and see your family,' he urged, and pushed him in the direction of the doorway.

ooOoo

**A/N - The Birthing Kits, as described in my story, are produced and distributed by The Birthing Kit Foundation (Australia). I do believe that other birthing kits are available and they do all help to save the lives of many mothers and babies in developing countries.**


	33. Loose Ends Chapter 32

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Two**

The next few hours were a blur of activity, in and around the little shack. Raphaella returned with a kettle of hot water and Molly was able to bath the baby in a washing up bowl, provided by another neighbour, and wash Maria, too. Sherlock tended the cooking fire until it was glowing red and, then, put on Maria's own kettle to boil.

Molly was concerned that both Maria and the baby should have a source of pure drinking water, at least for the immediate post-partum period, so Sherlock took Filipe, who had returned for the second half of his payment, to the nearest grocery store and returned with four one-gallon containers of bottled water, which could be drunk cold or heated and did not require boiling.

Molly and Sherlock witnessed the favela equivalent of a Baby Shower. As news of the birth spread, by word of mouth, several neighbours came around, bringing gifts for the baby and the new parents. These included baby clothes, terry towelling squares, for use as nappies, and safety pins, for use with the nappies, a crib, perfect for the new-born – home made from a wooden wine box, to which some enterprising person had added some wooden rockers and fitted a foam mattress – gifts of food, for Maria and Ru'e, and all manner of useful objects for a new baby and first time parents.

This was a recycling society. Nothing went to waste. The placenta, which Molly had wrapped in the plastic sheet, having checked it over for possible abnormalities, Raphaella took charge of and she explained that it would be cooked and eaten by the new mother. Protein was a precious commodity and this was an important source.

Molly was forcefully struck by the huge sense of community, as evidenced by the fact that these people, who owned next to nothing, were so generous with what little they had. It was clear that a new life was a precious thing, such was the joy expressed by the whole neighbourhood. Molly had lived in her flat for five years and barely knew anyone in the building, let alone in the crescent, on more than nodding terms, yet these people were like one big family, all anxious to help one another out, whatever it took.

She found out that Maria had been given the Birthing Kit one day, in the local market, when a group of charity workers had been handing them out to every pregnant woman they encountered. They had advised her to keep it safe and keep it sealed until the time came for the baby to be born, so she had put it in the bag, along with all the other things she had prepared for the birth – the towel, the woollen blanket and the cotton cloths – having no idea what it contained.

Molly helped Maria to feed her baby for the first time, showing her how to hold the infant, how to present the nipple and, also, how to care for her breasts, to make sure they were thoroughly cleaned before and after feeding and to prevent cracked nipple and mastitis. She also showed her how to care for the baby's umbilical and explained how it would dry out, shrivel and drop off, in time. When she saw the amount of advice and support available from the local women, Molly had no reservations about leaving the new mother to cope.

As she and Sherlock prepared to leave, to return to their hotel, Ru'e and Maria were effusive in their thanks for the timely arrival of the couple, on the scene of the imminent birth, and for everything they had done, subsequently. Ru'e roared with laughter when he heard about Sherlock's encounter with Raphaella and declared that the lady would, henceforth, be known as the 'Dragon Aunt'.

The big question on everyone's mind was the baby's name. The naming of Brazilian babies was a serious business, since all sides of the family needed to be represented - parents, grandparents and saints. When Molly went over to say goodbye, Maria took her hand and placed it on the baby's head, saying the word, 'Molly.' She was confused, at first, until Sherlock said,

'She's named the baby Molly, after you.'

'Oh, that is not necessary, really!' Molly exclaimed.

'No, they want to, Molly, they really do,' Sherlock explained. 'Please, let them do this.'

Molly was reminded of saying almost those exact words to him, the day they had arrived at the Children's Centre to that loud and enthusiastic reception. On that occasion, she had been right and on this, he was, too. She leaned forward and kissed the baby, hugged Maria and Ru'e, and they departed.

They walked, hand in hand, back through the favela, until they came to the 'civilisation' of made roads and conventional buildings. Sherlock hailed a cab and they rode back to the Palace Hotel in relative style.

'My God, Sherlock, what a day!' Molly declared, as they flopped down on the sofa, in their sitting room.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, so they had been up and about for nearly twelve hours. The boys were due to arrive at six o'clock, when a table had been reserved for an early supper for the family, with Caro and Henrique.

'We could go to bed for a couple of hours,' Sherlock suggested.

'To sleep?' Molly asked.

'Did you have something else in mind?' he enquired.

'Yes, actually, I did,' she replied, with a wicked grin, 'but let's have a drink, first. I am gagging for a cup of tea!'

'Me, too,' he agreed and went to put the kettle on.

ooOoo

Molly and Sherlock stepped out of the lift, into the hotel foyer, just before six o'clock and looked around, expectantly, for William and Harry, Caro and Henrique. They did not have to wait long. The lift to the underground car park opened and the party emerged, William holding Caro's hand and Henrique carrying Freddie in the crook of his arm. On seeing their parents, William ran forward and Freddie wiggled his legs to be put down then waddled across the floor, arms pumping energetically.

William was in a quandary about who to hug first so he opted for one arm around each parent but Freddie went straight for Sherlock, in the expectation of being hoisted on high and swung around – which was the usual form of greeting between the two. Sherlock obliged, whilst William hung onto his leg and Molly's waist. She bent down to give him a warm hug and a kiss. It was the longest she had been apart from her children for a very long time – in fact ever, in Freddie's case. She had missed them, only now realising how much. She held William to her for quite some time then straightened up, to take Freddie from his father, so Sherlock could embrace his older son.

'Have they been good?' Molly asked Caro and Henrique.

'As gold,' came the reply, as the group moved into the restaurant and were shown to their table.

William was telling his father about his two days at the house in the country. Apparently, he had taken Henrique to the wood on the hill, to show him the Thinking Tree, and had shown him how to make a Mind Place.

'So you have a Mind Place, now, as well?' Sherlock asked, smiling at the thought of William instructing the older man in the technique.

'In deed, I do!' Henrique confirmed. 'And it will be very useful at my time of life. I am always forgetting things but now I will be able to go to my Mind Tree and find what I am looking for.'

'Oh, yours is a tree, is it?'

'Yes, with many branches and also some hollows and a few nests, for special things to be kept.'

The waiter took their order and Molly told the older couple about their busy day.

'Oh, Maria had a little girl! How lovely! And how fortunate that you came along, when you did,' Caro observed.

'Oh, she was doing just fine on her own but, obviously, it was nice that she had someone there to help when it really counted.'

'And now we have a new little Molly in our big family! It might start a new trend for naming girls Molly!'

'I do hope not,' Molly cautioned. 'It's not the most attractive name in the world.'

'It's a beautiful name,' Sherlock put in, and thought, but did not say, 'for a beautiful person.'

'I ran into a friend of yours today, Sherlock,' Henrique declared.

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in a frown. He did not have many friends, especially in South America.

'Who might that be?' he asked.

'Gustavo Oliviera. He was at the club I sometimes take clients to, for lunch. I was there with one, today, and he walked in. He made a point of coming over. He said he was glad the business at the press conference was sorted and asked me to send you his regards.'

Sherlock gave a small shrug, to acknowledge the compliment.

'He asked me if I would get you to call him. He said he has something he wished to discuss with you.'

'Well, that is convenient because I have something I would like to discuss with him.' One down, two to go, thought Sherlock. 'Did he leave a number?'

'Yes, he gave me his card.' Henrique fished in his pocket and came out with a card between the first two fingers of his right hand. He handed it to Sherlock, who looked at it, briefly, then put it in his own pocket. He would call the man tomorrow.

'How was your meal, Molly?' Caro asked.

'Oh, it was lovely, thank you,' Molly replied, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Sherlock and also omitting to say that they had eaten their main course, cold and for breakfast, at five o'clock that morning.

'It is a fabulous restaurant. I've never been anywhere like it, before.'

'I don't think there is anywhere like it, outside of Portugal, at least,' Caro affirmed.

The conversation then moved to safer topics and Molly relaxed. The less said about their evening at the Antiquarius the better, fabulous though the place truly was. The rest of the meal passed pleasantly and then it was time for Caro and Henrique to return home and for Molly and Sherlock to take the boys back to their suite and get them ready for bed.

'Will I see you at the centre, tomorrow, Sherlock?' Caro asked.

'Yes, I really should go there. We still have so much to discuss and I'm sure William would like to see Rodrigo again.'

William nodded enthusiastically. He had yet to show his friend the technique for gathering up the jacks. It was agreed, therefore, that Sherlock and William, at least, would be at the Centre the next day. Molly and Freddie may come along, too. The party left the restaurant, said their good nights and went their separate ways.

Once back on the top floor, the couple gave the boys their bath, and heard all about the two days at Caro's, including how Freddie had said 'Bom dia' to Giorgio, at breakfast that morning.

'Soon I shall have a completely bi-lingual family,' Molly observed, with mock alarm. 'And you will all be able to talk, right in front of me, and I won't have a clue what you're saying.'

'Your Portuguese is improving, Molly,' Sherlock corrected her.

'My Portuguese? I don't have any Portuguese!' she insisted.

'Oh, yes, you do. Today, for instance, you were responding to Maria before I translated what she said but you were so intent on what was going on, you didn't even notice. Half the time, I wasn't saying anything and some of the time, you were speaking Portuguese, too – just single words mostly – but you have been absorbing the language whilst we've been here. You just need the confidence to have a go. You'll be speaking like a native before you know it.'

Molly gave her goofy grin that always melted his heart. She had done that, whenever he paid her a compliment, before they became a couple, even though she knew he was only flirting with her to gain some favour or other. How fortunate for him that she had such a forgiving nature, he reminded himself, for the zillionth time.

With the boys in bed, they stood on the balcony for a while and gazed out at the view, breathing in the scents and enjoying the sounds of summer in Rio, chatting about the dizzying turn of events the day had held. Molly concluded that, when they returned to the UK, she would give William's summer clothes to the Centre and Freddie's to Maria and Ru'e. Both boys would have grown out of them by next year, so they might as well go somewhere they would do some good.

'They can have my swim shorts, too, and those damned crocs!' Sherlock exclaimed. There was no way he would be caught dead wearing those, anywhere in the UK.

'I don't think any of the boys at the Centre would want them either, to be honest,' Molly admitted, giggling at the injured expression on his face. He was such an easy target, it was irresistible.

Then they retired to bed and resumed the serious task of making another baby.

ooOoo


	34. Loose Ends Chapter 33

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Three**

The next morning, it was just Sherlock and William who took the yellow taxi to the Children's Centre. Molly decided to have a quiet day at the hotel, with Freddie. She was feeling quite exhausted, after the events of the previous day. It was the first time she had officiated at a birth, as the only health care professional. When she did her obstetrics rotation, during her medical training, she had enjoyed the support of trained midwives. For Maria's confinement, she had called more upon her own child birth experiences than her training and she was eternally grateful that no complications had arisen. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she been obliged to perform a caesarean, for example. But all these 'what if's' were moot. It had all gone unbelievably by the book and both Maria and Baby Molly were fit and well.

After kissing Sherlock and William goodbye, she took Freddie down to the pool for a swim, laying claim to their usual sun lounger and settling in for the morning. As Freddie doggie-paddled his way around the trainer pool, Molly reflected on the conversation she had shared with Sherlock, the night before, after making love slowly, sweetly and sensuously, taking advantage of her 'fertile phase'.

'I read somewhere that if you lie with your feet elevated, post-coitus, it facilitates conception,' he observed.

'Conception has never been much of a problem for us – quite the opposite, don't you think? Did it give any hints about how to guarantee a female foetus?'

'Not exactly, but it did say something interesting on that subject.'

'Which was?'

'It said that 'y' sperm are very direct. In effect, they are sprinters. They take the shortest, fastest route toward the ovum. But they lack stamina so they often run out of energy before they get there. The 'x' sperm are slower but they have more stamina so, when the 'y' sperm fall by the wayside, the 'x' sperm keep going and eventually get to the ovum. If it hasn't already been fertilised by a sprinter, it does the job.'

'Have you been reading my women's magazines, again?' she asked.

'What if I have? It's all research. Men's magazines don't usually have articles of that nature. It's all bums and boobs – or car maintenance. I'm not particularly interested in any of those subjects.'

'No, I can't see you leafing through any of those 'lads' mags', somehow. But I never pictured you perusing 'Woman's Weekly' either.'

'They have very good short stories in 'Woman's Weekly, I'll have you know, not to mention the recipes.'

Molly looked at him, in surprise, then saw the twinkle in his eye and poked him in the ribs. His poker face cracked and he chuckled.

'Alright, smart arse, where did you read it?' she demanded.

'In a research paper on birth rate statistics, in the New Scientist, but I had you for a minute, didn't I?' he teased, hugging her to his chest. She curled in to him and wrapped a leg round his waist.

'Can I ask you a serious question?' he enquired and she looked up at him and gave a little nod.

'Pregnancy and labour are not entirely pleasant experiences. In fact, I would go so far as to say they are downright unpleasant, not to mention extremely painful and potentially life threatening.'

'I suppose, if you want to put it that way,' Molly agreed.

'So why do women do it?'

'Well, it would be bad news for the human race if we didn't, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, of course, but I'm sure you're not thinking about the future of humanity when you decide to have a child.'

'No, of course not.'

'So, why do women choose to go through this ordeal, again and again, in the full knowledge of what it entails? You see, I've been trying to think of a male equivalent and I can't come up with anything remotely similar.'

'What about you? You put yourself in danger, time after time, in your work. You've faced a criminal psychopath, a homicidal OAP and a female sexual predator, and didn't come out of any of those encounters particularly well, but it doesn't seem to put you off.'

'I don't think about the risk – not while I'm…..you know…..on the scent. I think it's the adrenalin rush that does it.' He thought it best not to mention the fact that the danger was actually part of the attraction – the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping though his veins.

'Well, it's kind of the same with pregnancy. For some women, the imperative to procreate is so strong, it over-rides every other consideration. There is also the fact that, as soon as the pain stops, you forget about it, anyway. I seem to recall it has something to do with endorphins. And it's not as if it's all for nothing; you have a beautiful baby to show for it - usually.' Molly felt the need to add the proviso. She didn't want to tempt fate.

'Women in the developed world have a choice whether or not to have children. In the past, and in developing countries now, women cannot control their own fertility and, for some, that must be a terrifying prospect. I can't imagine what it must be like to have ten or even more pregnancies. That would seriously take the shine off the idea.'

'Mamama, Fweddiedink, peed?' Freddie broke into her thoughts.

'Do you want a drink, sweetie?'

'Es, peed. Dooce, peed'

'You want some juice?'

'Es, dooce, peed.'

She scooped him out of the water and carried him to the steps and from there to the sun lounger, to give him a drink of juice.

ooOoo

On arrival at the Children's Centre, William could not wait to see his friend, Rodrigo, and he was in luck because the children were just coming out of their first lessons for their morning break.

'Olá, William! É bom te ver,' exclaimed Rodigo.

'É um prazer vê-lo, também, Rodrigo. Eu perdi você!' William replied.

So, having expressed how glad they were to see one another, they ran off together, to play.

Sherlock watched William team up with Rodrigo then walked down the corridor to the back office, where Raoul was poring over the books. He looked up and smiled when he saw who had entered the office.

'Mr Holmes! Welcome!'

'Sherlock, please. Mr Holmes is my brother,' he grinned.

'Sherlock,' repeated Raoul. 'Caro is on her way. She has information about the missing babies.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, wondering what that might be.

'I'll wait in the Interview Room. I need to make a phone call,' he advised the centre manager.

'I'll bring some coffee, when Caro arrives,' Raoul announced and went back to his book balancing.

Sherlock took himself into the Interview Room, fished Gustavo Oliviera's card from his top pocket and tapped the number into his phone. As he waited for the other party to answer, he flicked the calling card, absent-mindedly, with his little finger.

'Oliviera,' a voice announced.

'Sherlock Holmes. You asked for me to call.'

'Ah, Mr Holmes, how good of you to ring. I trust you are well?'

Sherlock abhorred this kind of social small talk.

'Was it something important?' he asked.

'Excuse me?' the politician replied.

'Henrique said you wished to speak to me about something. Was it something important?' he repeated.

'Ah, I see, you are a man who likes to get down to business; cut to the chase, as it were.'

Sherlock said nothing, just waited for the Minister of Cities to get down to business and cut to the chase. Eventually, Oliviera got the message.

'Could we meet, Mr Holmes?'

'Where and when?' Sherlock asked. There was something about this man that rankled with him, something that got under his skin.

'Tomorrow, perhaps? We could meet for lunch.'

'I rarely eat lunch, Sr. Oliviera, but if you wish to meet at lunch time, feel free to eat while we talk.'

'Very well, Mr Holmes. I will send a car for you. Where should I send it?'

'Tell me where we are meeting and what time, senhor, and I will be there.'

Oliviera gave him a time and a place and he said,

'I will see you tomorrow,' and cut off the call.

He sat, tapping the phone against his chin and still flicking the card with his little finger. Something had triggered his sixth sense but he could not put his finger on what it was. Then the door opened and Caro came in, followed by Raoul, with a tray of coffee. Sherlock stood up, out of respect for the lady, Raoul handed out the coffee and they all sat down. Caro got straight down to business.

'So far, over a hundred women have come forward to say that they gave birth at the clinic and were told their babies had been still born. We have taken DNA samples from those mothers and also from the fathers, where possible.'

Sherlock nodded to show that he had taken in the information.

'The federal police have begun to contact the people who, according to the clinic records, are known to have adopted babies. Most of these people do not live in Brazil. Many of them, apparently, had applied in their own countries to adopt a baby but had not been successful, for one reason or another.'

'What sort of reasons?' Sherlock asked.

'Mostly, this was due to the lack of availability of new born babies for adoption.'

'And these people did not want to adopt older children?'

'It would appear not. Some couples were considered too old to adopt and some were considered unsuitable, for other reasons.'

'Such as?'

'Some countries will not permit same sex couples to adopt,' Caro explained, 'and some countries insist that children of a particular ethnicity are adopted by parents of the same ethnicity.'

'So they won't allow black parents to adopt a white child, you mean?'

'Or Asian parents to adopt an Oriental child, and so on.'

'Which leaves a lot of babies without parents and vice versa? That is insane! Surely a loving home is all any child wants and needs?'

'One would think so, wouldn't one? There are also some couples, aware of the prevalence in Brazil of Street Children, who specifically wanted to adopt a Brazilian child from the favela, to give them a better life. They had no idea, obviously, that the babies were not actually given up for adoption but had, in fact, been stolen from their mothers.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. There were going to be a lot of very heart-broken people in the world as a result of this baby trafficking scam. He tried to remind himself of the dangers of caring but, unfortunately, caring was no longer optional. His heart had been opened and, like Pandora's Box, there was no closing it now.

'How long has the clinic been operating?' he asked, switching back to being analytical.

'Just six months, according to their records. The first babies were born their just short of six months ago.'

'Well, it's fortunate we found out about them when we did. Babies under six months of age will retain very little memory of their early life. It will make it easier for them to bond with their birth parents, when they are reunited,' Sherlock declared, in a matter-of-fact manner.

'Is the babies' DNA being gathered?'

'Some of the adoptive parents are co-operating. Others are seeking to resist, through the judicial system in their respective countries.'

'That's going to make it expensive, if we have to challenge them in the courts.'

'Clearly, none of our parents will have the resources to do that but we do have some pro bono lawyers who might represent them. We could, obviously, bring a joint action but if the babies are spread through various countries that will be more complicated. We'll have a better idea what we're dealing with when we have matched up the babies for whom we do have DNA with their birth parents.'

'How long is that likely to take?'

'Not long. A week, perhaps, or maybe two.'

'And when will the babies be returned to their natural parents?'

'Ah, well, that remains to be seen. Social workers are overseeing that side. It's beyond our control. We are only involved in the DNA collection and matching.'

Sherlock nodded.

Witnessing the birth of Maria's baby, the day before, he had been struck by the thought that, had that unfortunate woman, Teresa, not stumbled into the Children's Centre and given birth and then her husband come looking for her and her baby, they would all have been none the wiser about St Winifred's. Maria might well have gone there to have her child and would now be mourning that child's supposed death. This was far too close to home for him to be impartial. He must learn how to deal with caring.

ooOoo

William was showing Rodrigo and a few of the other boys how to pick up the largest number of jacks in the shortest possible time, in between bouncing and catching the small rubber ball. He scattered the jacks, took a moment to scan their positions, bounced the ball with a specific force and scooped up the jacks, before catching the ball again. He did this several times and, each time, managed to retrieve all the jacks before having to catch the descending ball, before it bounced a second time. The other boys were all very impressed.

'How did you learn that?' Rodrigo asked, in amazement.

'The ants showed me, 'William replied.

Rodrigo and the others looked at him as though he were a little deranged and some of the boys guffawed with amusement.

'You can talk to ants?' Rodrigo asked, giving William the benefit of the doubt.

'No!' the Holmes boy chuckled. 'The ants showed me by watching them.'

Rodrigo was none the wiser and gave his friend a bemused shake of the head.

'When ants are foraging for food,' the younger boy explained, 'they always find the shortest distance between the food source and the nest, so that they can gather the most amount of food for the least amount of effort. Humans have used this ant ability to do a similar thing. For example, because delivery vans have several parcels to deliver to different parts of a country, scientists created an algorithm that works out the most direct route between all the delivery addresses, so the delivery van does the job in the shortest time and uses the least amount of fuel.'

Rodrigo still looked puzzled.

William said, 'Watch. I'll show you.'

He scattered the jacks, randomly, on the ground.

'I look at the positions of all the jacks and work out in what order I should pick them up and, roughly, how much time it will take to do that.'

He pointed to the jacks, in the order in which they needed to be retrieved, to do it in the quickest time.

'Then I know how hard I need to bounce the ball so it stays in the air long enough for me to pick up the jacks.'

Then he bounced the ball, picked up the jacks and caught the ball as it fell.

'And you worked that all out in your head?' one of the other boys asked, incredulously.

'Yes,' William replied, wrinkling his brow and shrugging, wondering what was so strange in that.

'Holy Mary, Mother of God!' the other boy declared. 'Show me again!'

William was about to oblige when the teacher came to the door and called the children back to their lessons.

'Are you coming to class?' Rodrigo asked his English friend.

'What subject is it?' William asked.

'Literacy,' the older by replied.

'Oh, yes!' said William. 'I need to learn to read Portuguese as well as speak it,' and he followed his friend into class.

ooOoo


	35. Loose Ends Chapter 34

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Four**

Sherlock stepped from the cab, outside the Diners' Club, and straightened his jacket. He was quite looking forward to this meeting with Oliviera. It had piqued his interest that the man wanted to meet with him. He could not begin to imagine why. He had asked Caro, the day before, how Gustavo Oliviera came to chair the press conference and she said he had volunteered. That was interesting, in itself. As Minister of Cities, he did have a vested interest in the detection and eradication of organised crime, in Brazil, so, Sherlock reasoned, the man had a legitimate reason to be there.

He had spent the morning at the pool, with Molly and the boys, having a quiet family day, and they had all agreed that a visit to the ice cream parlour was definitely over-due, so that would be rectified in the afternoon, after his meeting. He didn't expect this to take more than an hour. He had left Molly, William and Freddie, ordering lunch from their sun lounger, when he returned to the suite to shower and change into his dark suit and a white shirt, then caught a yellow cab to bring him here.

As he stepped into the dining area, he removed his RayBans and told the maître who he was here to see. He was escorted to Oliviera's table and his host, who was perusing the menu, rose to greet him, with a firm hand shake.

'Mr Holmes, how good of you to come. Are you sure I cannot interest you in lunch? The cuisine here is exquisite.'

'No, thank you,' Sherlock replied. 'Just coffee and a glass of iced water.'

Oliviera ordered soup, and red mullet with a green salad, and the waiter brought a caffetiere of coffee, for Sherlock, and jug of iced water for the table. Sherlock left the caffetiere untouched, allowing the coffee to increase in strength.

'You must be wondering why I wished to meet with you, Mr Holmes,' the politician grinned.

'The thought had crossed my mind,' was Sherlock's acerbic reply.

'I've been researching you!' his host declared, and Sherlock wondered whether the man was expecting a round of applause. He stared across the table, waiting for his host to get to the point.

'I see that, in your own country – in fact, in the whole of Europe – you are quite famous as a detective.'

'I get by,' the outed detective replied.

'No, no, Mr Holmes, you do more than 'get by'. Your services are in great demand, I understand.'

Sherlock gave a rather bored shrug. When would this man stop waffling and spill the beans? He poured a glass of water and sipped it, just to pass the time.

'I would like to make use of your skills, myself, Mr Holmes. I would like to give you a commission.'

'I'm here on holiday with my family, Minister. I am not available for hire, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, I think you might change your mind when you hear what I have in mind.'

'I seriously doubt that,' he replied, depressing the plunger on the caffetiere, pouring a cup of the strong, aromatic liquid and adding two spoonsful of brown sugar.

'I would like you to investigate the _delegados_, João Vitor Diaz.'

'For what?'

'For whatever you ask, Mr Holmes. You can name your own fee!'

'No, Minister, you misunderstand. For what will I be investigating the _delegados_? What do you believe he's done?'

'I believe he is involved in the baby trafficking ring,' Oliviera replied.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took a sip of hot, sweet coffee.

'On what grounds?' he asked.

'Well….' And Gustavo Oliviera, Minister of Cities, went on to state all the reasons he had for suspecting the Chief of Federal Police in Rio of this grave misdemeanour.

'João Vitor Diaz is a local man. He grew up in the favela and has dragged himself out of the sewer but he cannot escape his past entirely. He comes from a family with serious organised crime connections and has always professed it to be his fondest wish to rid Rio of the powerful drug barons, who lure desperate young men and women into their clutches, in a bid to escape poverty. He was educated by the Jesuit Brethren and went to university. He has a degree in law but he never practised, preferring to become a policeman and tackle crime head on.'

So far, so what? thought Sherlock. He already knew all this, having read Diaz' secret file, at the British Consulate, but he wasn't about to let Oliviera know that. He just sipped his coffee and waited for the pompous man to continue expounding his theory.

'But I suspect that this has always been just a cover, Mr Holmes. I have had my suspicions about Sr Diaz for quite some time. I don't think he fell as far from the family tree as he would have us all believe.'

'So what would you like me to do about it?' Sherlock asked.

'Well, clearly, I cannot expect the police force to investigate the Chief of Police, so I would like to employ you, as an outside agent, to investigate him for me.'

'Surely you have Internal Affairs officers, Sr Oliviera? Or the Civil Police could carry out the investigation. They have not affiliation with the Federal Police, do they?'

'Corruption, I am sorry to say, is rife within both police forces, Mr Holmes. I don't have any faith in the impartiality of such an enquiry.'

Sherlock put down his coffee cup ad steepled his fingers under his chin. He could not deny he was intrigued by the proposition. He was investigating Diaz, anyway, as well as Oliviera and Alvarez and, with this man's assistance, he might gain access to more information. He had to admit to being tempted to accept the offer. But he didn't want to appear too keen.

'I will have to discuss your proposal with my wife, senhor. We came here for a family holiday and to carry out some personal business. She might not take kindly to my accepting paid work. She worries that I work too hard, as it is.'

'Well, perhaps I can offer you some incentives, Mr Holmes,' the politician replied, giving an excruciatingly oily grin.

'What might those be?' Sherlock enquired.

Oliviera reached into his inside breast pocket and withdrew his mobile phone.

'I am – or rather, was – a pilot, by profession.'

Sherlock knew this, of course. Gustavo Oliviera had been an officer in the _Força Aérea Brasileira_ and had taken his civil pilot's license but had chosen to be a politician, rather than a civil aviator, using his status as a military hero to boost his political career.

'I still keep up my flying hours, acting as my own pilot when I carry out my political duties both at home and abroad. I have my own private plane, which I would be more than happy to place at the disposal of you and your family, for the duration of your visit to my country, so that you might see more of what Brazil has to offer.'

As he spoke, he flicked through the photo album feature on his phone until he found what he was looking for and then presented the phone to Sherlock. The detective looked down at the image displayed there and, instantly, all the tumblers in his head clicked into place.

The sixth sense that had been buzzing in the back of his brain sprang into sharp focus and he knew, immediately, what had been niggling at him ever since Henrique had given him Oliviera's calling card, two days ago.

He recognised the plane. Well, not so much the plane itself, but the insignia on its tail. It was the same insignia that was emblazoned on the calling card and Sherlock had seen it before.

He knew he had been staring at the photo for too long. He looked up into the eyes of the man opposite and smiled.

'Forgive me, senhor, you must think me very rude. But I am rendered speechless by your generosity.'

He looked at his watch.

'I am afraid to say that I have another appointment to attend and I am running a little late.'

He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, offering his hand to Oliviera.

'Let me sleep on your proposal and discuss it with my wife. I'm sure your offer of the use of a private plane will prove to be a powerful persuader. I will let you have my answer tomorrow. Thank you for the coffee. It was delicious.'

He nodded, politely, then turned and walked toward the Diners' Club exit. He knew his cover was blown. He knew that Oliviera had seen the look in his eyes, the moment he recognised the plane. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the Diners' Club as possible but he thought his chances of escape were minimal. He calculated that he had time for one phone call.

As he strode, purposefully, through the club doors and turned right, along the pavement, he took out his mobile and rang Molly's number. She answered on the fourth ring.

'Molly, where are you?' he asked, as soon as she picked up.

'By the pool. What's the matter?' Molly knew that something was the matter. For one thing, Sherlock hardly ever phoned, he usually texted. For another thing, she could hear it in his voice.

'No time to explain. Take the boys to the suite. Lock yourselves in and don't open the door to anyone but Caro or Henrique. Do not trust anyone, do you understand? Not the hotel security, not the police, no one. As soon as you and the boys are locked in the suite, phone Caro. Tell her Oliviera is our man. Tell her he has a private plane that must be grounded and its flight records seized. Tell her to come and get you and the boys and take you all to the British Consulate. Stay there until this is all dealt with. Have you got that?'

'Yes,' Molly replied, beginning to gather up their belongings from the sun lounger, even as she spoke. 'What about you?'

'I think he's on to me. I'm trying to get away but I think I'm rumbled. Tell Henrique to check the street CCTV in the vicinity of the Diners' Club. If you don't hear form me, it might give clues as to where I am.'

Molly could tell by his breathing that he was walking fast but not running.

'Sherlock, take care!' she blurted out and then heard what sounded like a sharp exhalation, followed by a clattering noise as the phone fell to the ground. Then she heard nothing.

ooOoo

'William, we need to go back to the suite,' Molly said to her oldest son, who had been sitting on the sun lounger, beside her, playing on Sherlock's tablet. Freddie was asleep on her other side. She was stuffing their belongings into the bag, fumbling rather, because her hands were shaking with nervous tension. She thrust the bag at William and scooped Freddie into her arms.

'Carry the bag, please, darling. We need to go right now!'

William did not ask any questions. Much as he hated sudden changes of plan, if Mummy said they must go right now then, right now, they must go. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and trotted after his mother, down the scented bower, into the hotel foyer and across to the lift. Once inside the lift, Molly said,

'William, can you find the key card, please, darling?'

He could tell by Mummy's voice that she was upset about something but trying not to show it. He knew that phone call that had precipitated this sudden departure from the pool area was from Daddy. He hoped that Daddy was alright as he fished in the pocket of the bag and found the key card for their hotel suite door. The lift reached the top floor and slowed to a stop then the doors opened.

'Trust no one. Not the hotel security, not the police, no one,' Sherlock had said. Hotel security would have a pass key to the suite. How could she stop them using it to get inside?

'William,' she said, 'I need something to jam the lift doors. What can you think of?' As she spoke, she stood on the threshold of the lift, to stop the doors closing again. She watched as William's eyes flickered form side to side, just as Sherlock's did, when he was thinking really fast. Then the little boy plunged his hand into the beach bag and felt around then came out with his Rubik's Cube. It was about two inches wide, just about the same width as the groove for the lift doors.

'Clever boy,' Molly said and took it from him. Squatting down, she stuffed it, forcibly, into the groove, up against the left hand door. It was hard going, since it was a very tight fit but the tighter the better, she thought. To make certain it was jammed in securely, she stamped on it a few times, until it was flush with the floor. That would stop the doors from closing, so the lift was out of action. There were still the stairs but at least it would buy them some time.

Molly took William's hand and led him to the door to their suite. He opened the door with the key card and they all went inside, Freddie still sound asleep, against Molly's shoulder. She laid her snoozing burden on the sofa and smiled at William.

'Just sit with Freddie, darling, please. I just need to ring Auntie Caro.'

William nodded and sat down, next to his sleeping brother. Molly went into the master bedroom and closed the door then took out her mobile and speed dialled Caro's number. On hearing the other woman's voice, she nearly lost control but managed to hold on. She passed on Sherlock's message, exactly as he had given it.

'Oh, my god, Molly!' Caro exclaimed.

'No time for that, Caro!' Molly barked. 'Just do as Sherlock says and get here as quickly as you can. I don't know how long I can hold out before someone gets into the suite, so just impound the plane and get here for us! Just do it!'

ooOoo


	36. Loose Ends Chapter 35

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Five**

Sherlock opened his eyes but could still not see anything but blackness. He moved his head and instantly regretted it. The pain was excruciating. A wave of nausea swept over him and he closed his eyes again, with an involuntary groan. He moved one hand towards his head but found he couldn't, without pulling against his other shoulder. He was confused so just lay still, waiting for his head to clear so that he could figure out what was going on. He drifted back into unconsciousness.

Sound, movement and vibrations impinged on his awareness and he opened his eyes again. It was still pitch dark but he could see a very fine vertical strip of light, barely a millimetre wide, in his field of vision. It did nothing to illuminate his surroundings but it reassured him that he had not gone blind. He was lying on his side, in a confined space. He knew this because his feet were up against one firm boundary and the back of his head was pressed against another, his knees were bent towards his chest and his hands were pinioned behind his back. From the pain in his wrists and the lack of feeling in his fingers, he concluded that his wrists were tightly bound. He moved one foot and confirmed that his ankles were bound, too.

The pain in his head was intense and, when he tried to tried to turn it, to look around, his cheek peeled off the surface, leading him to believe that he had blood on his face. He tested the theory with his tongue and tasted the ferrous, salty tang, confirming that suspicion, too. The noise, movement and vibration were all familiar. He recognised that he was in a moving vehicle and he concluded that he must be in the boot. So, he summarised to himself, he was bound hand and foot, in the boot of a moving car and someone had hit him on the head. But how had he gotten here and why?

He was finding it hard to concentrate, which suggested he was concussed. That fitted with the 'hit on the head' scenario. He needed to remember where he had been, before waking up in a moving car. That was easier said than done because his befuddled brain was refusing to co-operate. In fact, all it wanted to do was shut down, so it did and he lost consciousness, yet again.

The next time he was aware of anything, he was moving again but not in the smooth, orderly manner of a car on a highway. He was upside down – or, at least, his head was and it was banging against someone's backside. He was being carried over a shoulder. The inverted position and repeated striking of his head on the other person's buttock was doing nothing to improve the pain in his head and the rising sense of nausea. There was nothing he could do to avert the inevitable. His stomach heaved and he vomited coffee all down the back of the other person.

The stream of profanities that erupted from his bearer were a prelude to the sudden and ignominious dumping of his body on the ground, whacking his head, yet again, on the hard surface and trapping his hands under him, as he lay on his back, looking up into a furious and vaguely familiar face. He didn't have much time to study that visage because a hefty kick in the ribs took his breath away and caused him to curl into a tight ball, on his side, to protect his softer body parts.

Then he heard a voice he did recognise – that of Sr Oliviera – shouting at the other man, telling him, in no uncertain terms, to bring Sherlock inside. Rather than pick him up and risk being vomited on again, the man just grabbed his ankles and dragged him across the hard earth, over a threshold and into a dark and musty building, with straw on the floor. Sherlock was hauled a few yards inside the building and then his feet were dropped and his legs flopped into the straw, as he rolled onto his side.

'Is he still alive?' he heard Oliviera enquire, sounding rather alarmed.

A rough hand felt around Sherlock's jaw and found his carotid pulse.

'Yes, for now,' came the guttural reply.

'Oh, my God! This is insane! He has powerful friends! They won't rest until they find him!' Oliviera sounded more like a bleating lamb than a powerful politician.

'You should have thought of that before you showed him the photo of your plane, you fucking idiot!'

'How did I know he would recognise it? I don't even know _how_ he recognised it! It's not even the same plane!'

'Well, whatever he recognised, it's too late now. At least he won't live to tell the tale.'

'But you said he rang someone? He must have told them!'

'He rang his wife. We're dealing with that.'

That statement filled Sherlock with fear and dread. He tried to sit up and shout out but all he managed was to do was flail about in the straw and emit a strange, incoherent groaning sound. His head was filling up, again, with cotton wool and he barely felt the blow, as the man who was not Oliviera kicked him in the back of his head. He fell back onto the floor and did not move again.

ooOoo

Molly sat on the sofa, between Freddie and William, her arms wrapped around the older boy, hugging him to her side. Freddie was still sound asleep and oblivious to the drama unfolding around him but William was wide awake and all too aware that something bad was happening.

'Where is Daddy?' he asked, at last, having been silent, since Mummy came out of the bedroom and sat down next to him, several minutes ago. Molly knew that there was no point trying to hide anything from William.

'I don't know where he is, darling. He went to see someone who turned out to be a bad man. He called me and told me to bring you and Freddie here. Auntie Caro is coming for us and Uncle Henrique is looking for Daddy.'

William nodded and took hold of his mother's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze.

'Daddy will be alright, Mummy, you'll see.'

Molly hugged him closer and dropped a kiss onto his head then jumped, in alarm, as the landline rang, shattering the quiet of the room. Molly crossed the floor and picked up the receiver. It was the hotel receptionist.

'Miss Hooper, the elevator to your floor seems to be malfunctioning. We are sending a technician to deal with it. You haven't obstructed the doors in any way, have you?'

'Why would I do that?' she asked, not wanting to give a bare faced lie. She had had her fill of lying, during Sherlock's fake demise.

'Well, I can't imagine, Miss Hooper. Anyway, the technician is on his way but it may take him a while as he has to use the stairs.'

'That's not a problem for me, thank you. I'm not intending to go out again for a while.'

'Is everything alright, Miss Hooper?' the receptionist asked.

'Everything is absolutely fine, thank you,' Molly replied and hung up the phone.

She went to sit next to William again. She felt like a sitting duck. She took out her mobile and dialled Caro's number again. Her call was answered immediately.

'Caro, where are you? Are you anywhere near?'

'Yes, I am, Molly. I should be at the hotel in about ten minutes.'

'I've disabled the lift. You won't be able to come up to this floor but we can come down to you, by the stairs. Drive into the underground car park and wait by the stairs at the other end of the building, not our end. A technician is coming up to deal with the lift so we can't use our stairwell.'

'Molly, shouldn't you wait until we get there? I can send my driver up to help you.'

'No, Caro, I feel trapped here. I just feel as though someone is about to burst in. I can't stay here a minute longer. We will come down and meet you in the car park. Have you heard from Sherlock?'

'No, I'm sorry, Molly, not a word but Henrique is with the _delegados_ and they are checking the street CCTV footage from the area outside the Diners' Club.'

'Did they impound the plane?'

'It's all in hand, Molly.'

'OK,' Molly replied. 'Just get here as soon as you can, Caro, please.'

She shut off the call and turned to William, who had listened to the whole conversation.

'Are you OK, William?' she asked. He gave her a determined look and a decisive nod. 'Good boy,' she replied, smiling at him, appreciatively. 'Right, this is what we are going to do.' She explained to the little boy exactly what was going to happen.

ooOoo

Henrique was at the headquarters of the _Polícia Federal_, with the _delegados_, João Vitor Diaz, in the Street Surveillance Suite, reviewing the recordings from the cameras in the vicinity of the Diners' Club, around the lunchtime period. There was no camera immediately outside the club so they had no idea which direction Sherlock took when he left the premises and only a rough idea of what time that was. Of all the personnel on duty, only Henrique and Diaz knew what Sherlock looked like, so it was up to them to try to spot him in the busy lunch time streets. Agent Esteves had been sent for and was on his way, to assist in the search.

They had located Oliviera's plane at the local airport, where it was based, and grounded it. They had also obtained its flight records, from air traffic control. These would be analysed and assessed for their relevance as evidence. Federal agents had been dispatched to the Minister's various homes and haunts, to locate and arrest him. In the meantime, the priority was to find Sherlock. Esteves arrived and got straight work, scanning the CCTV images, intently, looking for the distinctive features of the English detective. And spotted him.

'Sr Diaz, there!' he declared, freezing the image and pointing at a figure in the crowd. It was a head-on shot of Sherlock, his phone held to his ear, weaving his way through the lunchtime foot traffic. All three men looked at the screen as Esteves advanced the image, frame by frame.

'Look here,' Esteves spoke again, pointing to two faces in the crowd behind the subject. 'They are following him.' They all watched, almost mesmerized, as Sherlock moved down the street and the two men tailed him. Then, without any warning, Sherlock ducked to his right, down an alleyway and, just a few yards behind him, the two stalkers turned down there, too. There could be no doubt that they were after him.

'Where does that alleyway come out?' Diaz demanded. A female agent consulted the electronic map and announced the answer, to the room. Esteves checked a schematic and switched the view to another camera, on the parallel street. He synced the timer to the moment when Sherlock turned down the alley. Then they watched and waited.

Nothing happened for quite some time and then a car drew up at the end of the alleyway and the driver jumped out, ran round to the back of the vehicle and opened the boot. Moments later, the two stalkers emerged from the alleyway, carrying Sherlock between them, like a roll of carpet. The picture was quite grainy and everything happened very quickly but Esteves froze the image and, once again, advanced it frame by frame.

They could see that the Englishman's hands were secured behind his back and his feet were bound at the ankles. His head lolled, out of control, so it was obvious he was unconscious. In seconds, he was bundled into the boot of the car, the lid slammed shut and the driver jumped back into the front seat and sped away. The other two men disappeared, back down the alleyway.

'Check that registration number,' Diaz ordered.

'Already on it, sir,' the female agent answered, tapping rapidly on a keyboard.

'Can we track that car?' Henrique asked.

'We can check the traffic cameras, within the city, for the registration number,' the woman replied. 'We have software for that. But, if it leaves the city boundaries, we may lose it. There are not so many cameras out in the sticks. But we do have an owner,' she announced. 'It's a hire car, registered to a local luxury car hire firm.'

'Damn!' Henrique swore. Another time consuming job, finding out who hired the vehicle. This hunt for Sherlock's whereabouts was not proving easy and, with every passing second, his life was in greater danger. These men were clearly ruthless. To carry out a snatch, in broad day light, in the middle of Rio was daring if not desperate.

Esteves was already on his feet.

'I will go and see the car hire people. Please, let me know if you get any leads. Call me on my cell.' He left the room, at a fast walk.

ooOoo

Molly opened the suite door a few inches and glanced, quickly, up and down the corridor outside. It was completely deserted. She checked to the right and saw the door leading to the stair well. The technician would be using that stair, closest to the damaged lift. She pulled her head back into the sitting room and bent to scoop a now awake Freddie off the floor. She looked at William, as she shouldered her hand bag. They were all dressed in casual street clothes, as if they were going out for the afternoon. If anyone asked, they were going to the ice cream parlour. Hopefully, no one would look twice at them.

'OK, babes,' Molly said, smiling at both boys, 'let's go.'

She stepped out into the corridor, holding William by the hand and carrying Freddie on her hip, and they walked purposefully down its length, past the doors to the other five penthouse suites, on either side of the hallway, reaching the door to the other stairwell, without meeting anyone. Molly pushed open the door, they walked through, and stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. Molly looked over the banister. It was an awfully long way down but rather down than up, she thought to herself and they began to descend to the basement car park.

In the room behind Reception, where the security staff were based, a guard was scanning the various security camera feeds and spotted a young woman, with two children, walking down top corridor and disappearing through the doorway that led to the stairs. He took out his walkie talkie and spoke into it.

'She's making a run for it. She's coming down the West Stairwell.'

ooOoo

Sherlock lay on his side, in the straw. His head had bled again and a curious rat, attracted by the scent of fresh blood, approached his still form, cautiously, its whiskers and nose twitching. It came right up to him and sniffed his hair, decided he was far too big to eat but thought it might do a bit of investigating of his pockets. It sniffed along the length of his body, from head to toe, found nothing of value and scampered off, toward the grain store, where it was assured of a meal. Sherlock was oblivious to its existence, oblivious to everything.

ooOoo


	37. Loose Ends Chapter 36

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Six**

Henrique watched Agent Cardoso's screen, as the software tracked the car, carrying Sherlock in its boot, through the city. This was not real time, of course. It had happened some time before but the software scanned the video recording data and showed the car's progress on the screen map.

His mobile phone rang out. It was Caro.

'What is it, darling?' he asked.

'It's Molly and the children. They have left the suite. Molly felt trapped there and decided she preferred to be on the move, rather than sitting waiting to be caught. She disabled the lift – I don't know how – so is coming down the stair case to meet me in the basement car park. But I'm not there yet and I'm so worried because she is all on her own, with the two babies…..'

'We must send someone to help her. Diaz! We need to send someone to the Palace Hotel to help Sherlock's wife and children. They are coming down the stairs from the top floor.'

'Henrique, Sherlock told her to trust no one but you or me. If you send an agent, she won't trust him!'

'What about Esteves? She knows him, doesn't she? She would have seen him when he collected and returned Sherlock, on the day of the press conference,' Henrique suggested.

'Esteves is nearest, too,' cut in Agent Cardoso. 'The car hire company is almost next door to the Palace Hotel.'

'Call Esteves,' Diaz ordered. 'Tell him to go to the hotel and find the senhora and escort her and the children to the basement, to meet Senhora de Sousa.'

Agent Cardoso dialled Esteves and gave him the new orders.

ooOoo

Molly and the boys had descended one storey, to the fifth floor, when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps, far below. She peered, cautiously, over the landing banister and saw the heads of two men, three floors below, just coming to the second floor landing. Their steps were laboured. They were clearly not very fit, since running up two flights of stairs seemed to have worn them out, unless they had come up from the basement, she surmised, in which case three flights had done for them. They stopped on the second floor and leaned on the banister, with both hands. That was when she saw the guns.

Molly jumped back from the banister, pulling William with her. They were armed. Of course they were. She knew she had to cross over to the other stair case but, if she went now, they might twig what she had done and simply cross over themselves. She had to wait until there was just one flight between them. She looked at both boys and put a finger to her lips. William was already alert to the fact that they were in danger and was not about to make any sound at all. Freddie – normally bright and chirpy – looked solemn and quite concerned. He looked from Molly to William. William put his finger to his lips, also. Freddie copied the gesture and remained silent, too.

Hugging the wall, Molly moved silently down one more flight, to the next landing – the fourth floor – and listened. She could hear the men's tired steps. They reached the third floor landing and stopped, again, for a rest. She knew she must let them start to climb again before slipping through the fire door, onto the fourth floor corridor, and crossing to the other stairwell. She waited, trying to calm her breathing, listening for the sound of climbing, once more.

ooOoo

Agent Esteves entered the foyer of the Palace Hotel and crossed to Reception. He showed his identity badge to the Receptionist and told her he needed to see their CCTV array. She ushered him into the back room and, as he entered, he saw the security guard, standing in front of the array of screens, about to speak into his walkie-talkie.

'That woman and her brats, she is a wiley one!' the guard began. It was as far as he got. Esteves launched himself across the small room and kicked the walkie-talkie from the hand of the startled man, who tried to punch the agent, but Esteves was far too quick and much better trained. He gave the other man a sharp jab in the throat, with his elbow, and the guard fell to the floor, gasping and clutching his Adam's apple.

Esteves bent and picked up the walkie-talkie.

'Is this normal hotel security issue?' he demanded of the shell-shocked receptionist. She just gaped and shook her head.

Esteves stepped over the stricken man, so he could see the array of CCTV screens and scanned them, rapidly, looking for a woman with two children. He spotted her, on the fourth floor, running as fast as she could, carrying the smaller child, as the older one ran on, just ahead of her.

'You'd better call an ambulance,' the agent told the still-frozen girl from Reception. 'He's going to need an emergency tracheotomy.' He then strode from the room and made for the East Stairwell.

ooOoo

William reached the fire door, leading to the East Stairwell and stopped to wait for Mummy. Molly's arm was aching from carrying Freddie, who was a stocky little chap and no lightweight. Her legs were aching from the exertion, carrying the extra weight, and her breathing was laboured, partly from the running but more so from fear. The adrenalin rush had gotten her this far but her lungs were screaming; the anaerobic process was causing lactic acid to form in her muscles and they had begun to burn. But she had to keep going. She could not stop.

She pushed open the fire door and she and the boys passed through, on to the landing. She paused to listen, trying to breath more efficiently – in through her mouth and out through her nose – and she swapped Freddie to the other hip, to give her left arm a rest. She could not hear any footsteps at all. She and William began to descend to the third floor, all the time mindful that – if the pursuers chose to separate, they could perform a pincer movement and trap her and the boys in the middle. She hoped and prayed they were not that smart.

They reached the third floor landing and stopped again. And that is when she heard it – only a small sound but enough for her to know that someone or something was coming up the stairs from the floor below, moving fast but almost silently. This person was a much more efficient predator than the other two, who must, by now, have reached the top floor and realised that she had crossed to the other stairwell. They were probably – at this very moment – crossing over themselves and coming down to trap her.

ooOoo

Back in the Street Surveillance Suite, the progress of the car had been tracked to the city boundary and it was now heading out into the suburbs but the dearth of traffic cameras on the country roads made it virtually impossible to track. Unless it turned back onto a main highway, they would have no way of knowing where it went from then on.

'What is out there?' Diaz asked Cardoso.

She consulted the electronic map again and then switched it to satellite view. The image changed, immediately, from a map-like schematic to an aerial view of roads, forest, fields and farms. Cardoso studied the image intently, as she followed the course of the road that the car was last known to be travelling. As it went further and further from civilisation, her eye was drawn to a remote group of buildings.

'Look here, sir,' Cardoso said. 'This used to be a racing yard. The trainer lost his licence a couple of years ago, because of a doping scam, and it's been abandoned ever since. It's way off the beaten track. If someone wanted to hide out, that would be a perfect place. No one ever goes there.'

Diaz looked at the image of the huddle of outbuildings around a central farmhouse. It was a slim lead but it was the only one they had.

'OK, let's send a covert ops team out there to take a look. Tell them to approach with extreme caution. Warn them that there is a possible hostage situation. I want them to go in very quietly. Don't even waken the mice.'

Cardoso picked up the internal phone and began to relay orders.

ooOoo

Molly considered making a dash for it, through the door, onto the third floor, but she knew her legs were not up to any more running and, in the corridor, they would be easy targets, like shooting fish in a barrel. She backed up in to the corner of the landing, as far away from the top of the stairs and the door to the corridor as she could go. She put Freddie down on his feet, pushed William into the corner and placed Freddie right in front of him.

'William, hold onto Freddie. Don't let him go,' she whispered.

William wrapped his arms round his brother and hugged him to his chest. Freddie put his arms up and grabbed two hands full of William's tee shirt and hung on, tight. Molly turned and placed herself in front of the boys, spreading her arms in a protective posture, just as their pursuer's head appeared above the top step of the flight of stairs.

He looked lean and fit – not like the other two, who were over-weight and under exercised. He held a pistol in his right hand but it was not pointed at her. His hands were raised, in a placatory gesture, and the gun barrel pointed away from her and the boys. But Sherlock's words resonated in her brain.

'Trust no one. Not the security guards, not the police, no one.'

'Please! Don't hurt my children! They don't know anything. They can't hurt you. Don't hurt them!'

The man stopped at the top of the stairs and began talking, quietly, in Portuguese. Molly had no idea what he was saying.

'Just don't hurt my children,' she repeated.

'Mummy,' William interjected. 'He says he doesn't want to hurt us. He's here to help us. He says he knows Daddy and that he looked after him, that day he went to talk to the journalists.'

'Trust no one,' she heard, in her head, again.

'Ask him what his name is,' Molly instructed William, who obliged.

The man in front of them made a very slow, elaborate show of reaching into his inside breast pocket and taking out an identity badge. He held it out at arm's length and spoke again.

'He says he is Federal Agent Esteves and that the _delegados_ sent him to take us down to Auntie Caro, in the basement garage.'

Molly reached out a tentative hand and took the proffered badge, trying to look at it without taking her eyes off the strange man. She saw a photograph and some words written in Portuguese but she could read that it said he was a Federal Agent and his name was Esteves. The image matched his face. She handed the badge back to him and he took it, gingerly, slipping it back into his pocket.

He began to say something else but the door to the corridor suddenly flew open and a man charged through, closely followed by another, both brandishing weapons.

Molly spun round and crouched over the boys, shielding them with her own body. Even as she did that, two gun shots exploded, in rapid succession, very close by and the noise was amplified by the bare walls, hard surfaces and deep recesses of the stairwell. The noise was beyond deafening. William screamed and jammed his hands over his ears and Molly fell on top of the boys, bearing them all down to the floor, in a heap, in the corner.

ooOoo


	38. Loose Ends Chapter 37

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

'Senhora? Senhora? Você está bem?'

As the last, ear-shattering reverberations from the two gun shots finally decayed and dissipated, within the stairwell, the complete and utter silence that followed was broken by the sound of a man's voice. He repeated the same phrase twice, maybe three times and then Molly felt a tentative hand on her shoulder. She tensed at the touch and curled her body round her two boys, shielding them from whatever the man intended to do.

Molly's ears were still singing, whining, with tinnitus from the intense assault of the sound waves the gun shots had let loose in the echo chamber of hard, reflective surfaces that they occupied. Her boys were silent and her eyes were still screwed tight shut so she could not see them. She dared not open her eyes for fear of what she might see. She had heard William scream but now he made no sound at all. She could not even hear or feel the boys breathing.

Then, she heard the man's voice again, talking quickly and quietly, but not to her. She wondered if he might be talking to the other two men who had burst in on them but, if he was, they were not answering.

Molly's olfactory sense was overcome with the acrid odour of explosive, from the gun shots. Intermingled with this was the distinctive smell of fresh blood – and a lot of it. She knew well enough, as a pathologist, that the human sense of smell was not powerful enough to pick up the scent of blood unless it was very close, very old or a lot of it. There was definitely a lot of blood, very nearby. Yet again, she dared not look to see if the source might be one or even both of her boys. If it were, she thought she might lose her sanity.

The man had stopped talking. All was quiet again, but for the tinnitus. Then she felt something move underneath her and she heard a small voice say,

'Mamama?' followed by the strangest sound, a sound she had so rarely heard, it was a shock as great as the sound of the gun going off. Freddie began to cry. He started off with a low drone but it quickly grew in volume and tone until it was a full-blown, high-pitched scream of terror and alarm. She could not ignore that sound. She opened her eyes.

Looking down, she first saw William, his eyes closed, his face contorted, his hands pressed to his ears, his body rigid. Lying face down, on top of him, was Freddie, his head raised, looking round, trying to turn to look at her but unable to do so because her weight was pinning him down.

'Freddie! Mummy's here! Don't cry, baby,' she uttered, in a high-pitched breathy squeak she barely recognised as her own voice.

She eased her weight of the two boys, pushing up onto her knees, then she lifted Freddie off his brother and turned him in her arms so he was facing her. His face was red and tears flowed freely as he gasped and sobbed and gasped some more, with fear and shock and general disorientation. She held him to her chest, with one arm, and rocked and soothed whilst, at the same time reaching down to William, stroking his head and cheeks, rubbing his shoulder and chest, trying to elicit some sort of response. But he remained rigid and still, but for the far too rapid movement of his chest, as he hyperventilated.

Molly's total absorption in seeing to the welfare of her children was assaulted by the sound of running feet and shouting, coming nearer, from somewhere below. She held Freddie tighter and leant over William again, shielding them from whatever this new threat might be. Then she heard the man's voice again, speaking sharply but not loudly. The sound of running and shouting faltered and then dropped to a low hum.

Then, she felt a change in the air, a warm breeze, coming from her left, then the now familiar sound of the fire door opening on its hinges, followed by Caro's voice saying,

'Oh, my god! What has happened here?'

The next moment, her friend was at her side, bending over her, wrapping comforting arms around her and her children, asking her if she was alright, were the children alright and then asking someone else, in Portuguese, something about an ambulance. Molly needed to see to William. He was still unresponsive. Freddie had stopped howling and was just emitting the occasional shuddering sob. She half turned toward the older lady and pushed Freddie into her arms. He resisted for a moment, clinging to her, but then seemed to recognise Caro and allowed her to take him into her comforting embrace.

Molly leaned over and put her face close to William's, whispering,

'Come to Mummy, darling.'

She pushed her hands under his shoulders and lifted him up. As his body left the floor and made contact with hers, he seemed to melt, to dissolve, like ice in warm water, and he moulded his body to hers, curling into a foetal position, in her arms. One hand moved from the ear that was now pressed to her chest, and he thrust the thumb of that hand into his mouth, whilst the other hand relaxed and began to tug at his other ear lobe, just as he was wont to do as a tiny fractious baby, with an attack of colic. Molly rocked and shushed, as much to comfort herself as to comfort the boy, whilst Caro rubbed her back, gently, and hugged Freddie close.

The next hour passed in something of a blur. Several paramedics arrived, some to deal with Molly and the children and some to deal with the two bodies that lay – one on the landing and the other on the stair - where they had fallen, when Esteves shot them, one through the heart and the other in the head, as they burst through the fire door into the stair well. There was, indeed, a lot of blood. The concrete floor and stairs were slick with it and it ran off and dripped onto the stairs and landing below.

The paramedics took Molly and the children, along with Caro and Agent Esteves, through the fire door, onto the third floor corridor and along to the lift, which was now back in use, since the technician had prised out William's Rubik's Cube from the door groove. They were taken down to the hotel foyer and out to a waiting ambulance, where they were wrapped in silver survival blankets, treated for shock and whisked off to hospital. Agent Esteves rode shot gun and Caro followed in her car. This put Molly at something of a disadvantage, due to her lack of Portuguese, but there was only room for one escort and the agent insisted it be him. Fortunately, one of the paramedics spoke some English.

They were about half way to the hospital when Molly suddenly asked,

'Have they found Sherlock?' sitting up, sharply, as though suddenly awoken from a deep sleep, still holding William, who had screamed shrilly when they tried to take him from her. The paramedic shook her head and then addressed the enquiry to the agent.

'Vou tocar e ótimo para fora,' he replied and the paramedic interpreted as

'He will call and find out for you.'

Esteves took out his mobile and dialled.

ooOoo

The Covert Operations team had, quietly and surreptitiously, surrounded the abandoned racing yard. They were still some distance away and were advancing on foot from all directions, guided, via their ear pieces, by a spotter, who lay on top of a rocky outcrop, which gave an unimpeded view of the cluster of buildings, with the aid of a pair of high-powered binoculars.

So far, there had been no movement around any of the buildings but the spotter had caught a flash of sunlight, reflecting off something metallic and had concluded that there was a car parked under a lean-to and, since the sun had moved through its arc, it was now reflecting in one of the wing mirrors. The car was long, sleek and black, so fitted the description of the car they sought but the registration number was not visible from the spotter's position.

As the Federal Police personnel crept and crawled closer, through the undergrowth, the spotter gave them a clear and graphic description of the layout of the buildings, the position of windows and doors, the proximity of all the buildings to one another and the availability of cover, close to the complex itself. The hardest part would be advancing the last few yards, because the area immediately surrounding the farmstead was clear of all vegetation. They would have to rely on sightlines – avoiding those that gave onto windows and doors – and on the vigilance of the spotter to tell them whether anyone came out and started walking about.

The team was almost within striking distance when the spotter announced.

'We have company.'

Racing down the country road toward the ex-racing centre, leaving a huge cloud of dust in its wake, was a vehicle – a people carrier, seven-seater.

'Reinforcements, perhaps?' the spotter speculated. 'I'll let you all know when they get there. Just keep your heads down, ladies and gentlemen.'

The car sped straight up to the front of the farm house and skidded to a halt. Four males jumped from the vehicle and two males came out of the farm house. They stood in a loose group and there was what seemed like a heated conversation, with a good deal of arm waving and gesticulating, some gestures of frustration and a few instances of full body turning away and then back, as though everyone were very agitated. Then the group set off, led by one of the two from the farm house, round the side of the residential building, toward one of the barns. The second man from the house, hung back, as though reluctant to follow, though follow he did.

When they reached the barn, the first man and one of the newcomers went inside and all the others stayed outside. As the spotter continued to describe the scene to his colleagues, the two men emerged from the barn, dragging an object between them.

'Ok, the two Alphas are dragging a body. This may be the subject – the hostage. They are dragging him by his shoulders. He is prone, his head is unsupported, wrists bound behind his back, ankles bound, toes dragging on the ground. They are dragging him toward the bush. I think they intend to terminate him, if he is not terminated already. Situation critical. Repeat. Situation critical. Move in! Repeat. Move in!'

At that signal, all the agents broke into a run and advanced rapidly on the two groups of men – those still standing outside the barn and those dragging the body toward the bush. Four agents burst from cover, right in front of the two with the body, taking them completely by surprise. So much so, they dropped the body on the ground and tried to run back toward the other group of men, but they, too had been surprised by the sudden appearance of a large number of heavily armed CO operatives, and they quickly capitulated and lay flat on the ground, arms extended out, in the cruciform, as the Feds stood over them and trained guns on their backs.

One operative had stopped to examine the body and then a cool voice spoke in the spotter's ear.

'Subject alive – just. Request urgent medical assistance. Air ambulance. Tell them to step on it or he might not still be breathing when they get here.'

ooOoo

Esteves concluded his phone conversation, cut the connection and turned to Molly. He began to speak and she looked, urgently, from him to the paramedic, desperate for the news but dreading what it might hold.

'They have found your husband. They are bringing him to the hospital by Air Ambulance. His vital signs are poor,' the paramedic explained, bluntly but not unkindly.

Molly felt her skin go cold as a huge, invisible band tightened around her chest. She bit her lip and swallowed hard then whispered,

'Thank you.'

She looked down at William, still curled in her lap, eyes tight shut, thumb in mouth, then at Freddie, lying on the gurney, secured by a strap, wrapped in the silver blanket, eyes wide open and fixed on her face. She gave him a tight smile and reached out a hand, which he grasped, as the ambulance turned in to the hospital forecourt and pulled up in the ambulance bay.

ooOoo


	39. Loose Ends Chapter 38

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Eight **

In the Emergency Room, Molly was causing a bit of a quandary. First of all, there was the question of how the family's treatment would be paid for. They had travel insurance and Molly had the certificate in her hand bag, along with their passports, but the hospital bursar required an authorisation code from the insurance providers, which required that Molly make a phone call but the medical staff would not allow her to use her mobile in the department and she refused to leave the boys alone long enough to step outside and make the call.

Also, the staff wanted to treat the children in the Paediatrics section and Molly in the Adult section but Molly was having none of it. She flatly refused to be separated from her boys. Every time anyone suggested that she hand William to someone else or even put him down on a treatment couch, he keened pitifully, which set Freddie off howling,

'Willum! Willum! Noooooo!'

and trying to bat at the ER staff with his little fists, whilst huge tears rolled down his apple cheeks.

Fortuitously, Caro arrived only minutes after the ambulance, and was able to broker a deal, whereby Molly was triaged in the Paediatrics section but agreed to go to Adults for any treatment that might be required. The older lady also went outside and called the insurance company, to secure the treatment code, which placated the hospital administrator. With Caro there to mediate and to act as interpreter, things calmed down considerably, in the Emergency Room, and the staff were able to get on with their work, without risking the wrath of Freddie.

The taking of William's vital signs showed that he was in a state of near-catatonic shock.

'It was the noise,' Molly explained. 'When the gun went off in the stairwell, the noise was unbearable even for me so for William it would have been excruciatingly painful. He is sound sensitive at the best of times.'

The paediatrician suggested they sedate him, just to give his body and mind the opportunity to rest and recuperate from the trauma of the whole experience. Molly could see the sense in that and agreed. Once William had succumbed to the sedative, he could be properly examined for any signs of physical injury. There were none, except a few small scratches on his chest, from Freddie's finger nails, which had probably happened when William screamed, right by the toddler's ear.

Freddie's vital signs were all perfectly normal and, once William stopped showing signs of distress, he recovered his good spirits sufficiently to charm the nurses and doctor, who forgave him his earlier attempted assaults.

Molly had no physical injuries, either, and her vital signs were relatively normal, considering the terrible ordeal she had undergone. It was decided, however, that the family should remain in hospital, overnight at least, under observation, in case any delayed reactions, such as shock, should occur.

Caro, who was well known to the hospital Bursar as a generous benefactor, persuaded the hospital staff to allow the family to stay together, in one room. Once they had been moved there and formally admitted, Molly asked Caro if she knew anything about Sherlock.

'Do you know where he is? What happened to him?'

Caro knew very little but she consulted Esteves, who had stayed outside the treatment room, all the time the family were in there, had escorted them to their current location and was now on guard outside the door. She asked him what he knew and he gave her an account of the search and the assault on the abandoned racing yard. He explained Sherlock's condition, when he was found, and that he was being treated in this very hospital, having arrived, by Air Ambulance, a few minutes before the rest of the family.

Caro passed on the information to Molly. The news was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she knew he was no longer in the hands of his captors and that he was very near to her but, on the other hand, his condition sounded critical. She asked Caro to speak to the hospital staff and find out whatever she could, including when Molly might be able to see him. Caro agreed to do that but, before she left the room, she took Molly's hand and said,

'I phoned Mycroft, on my way here from your hotel. He is catching the first available flight and should be here in the morning.'

That news was the best thing Molly had heard all day. Mycroft would take control of the situation and sort everything out. He would relieve her of that responsibility. He would put it all right. For the first time, since the whole awful business had kicked off, just after lunch, Molly felt a wave of relief wash over her and tears of sheer exhaustion pricked her eyes.

'Oh, thank you, Caro. You always know exactly the right thing to say and to do. You are a wonderful person and we are so lucky to have you as our friend!' The two women hugged and sniffed and laughed with embarrassment and Caro went off to find out what was happening with Sherlock.

ooOoo

By the time the Air Ambulance arrived at the deserted racing yard, the federal agent, a trained field medic who had taken on Sherlock's care, had removed the ligatures from his wrists and ankles, so normal blood flow could resume to his extremities. His hands were cold and bloodlessly white but pinked up quickly, once the cable ties were cut off.

A cursory examination of his scalp revealed a nasty gash, above his right ear, which had bled profusely, soaking his hair, shirt and jacket. This was now dried and turned to a muddy brown colour. He also had a large swelling and a secondary cut to the back of his head, but this had barely bled at all. His pupils were reactive to light, though the left eye not so well as the right. There was a great deal of blood in his right ear but it was difficult to tell if that had come from the scalp laceration or from internal bleeding. That would be for the medics at the hospital to ascertain.

His pulse was slow and a little irregular but that might be normal for him. Again, this was something for the hospital to investigate. The most telling signs were the speckled pattern of bruising to his forehead and the burst blood vessel in his right eye. This inferred a possible swelling of the brain, causing the pressure to increase, inside the cranium. The agent found it disconcerting how deeply unconscious the subject was, completely unresponsive to all and any stimuli, possibly comatose. Likely causes, such as an epidural haematoma, flashed through the man's mind, as he positioned himself to shade the patient from the hot afternoon sun, and waited for the Air Ambulance to arrive.

ooOoo

Caro left Molly and the boys in their hospital room and walked through the building to the Emergency Room reception area or Chairs as it was known, colloquially. They would be able to tell her where to find Sherlock. She approached the Reception desk and was waiting to speak to the administrator there when she saw her husband, Henrique, striding toward her, from the Patient Entrance. She had never been more glad to see him, and submitted willingly to his prolonged embrace.

'Are you alright, my darling?' he asked, gazing into her eyes with great concern, when they eventually drew apart.

'All the better for having you here,' she replied, with heartfelt sincerity.

'How are Molly and the children?'

'Molly and Freddie are OK, as well as can be expected, as they say, but poor little William has had a terrible shock and has been sedated. Molly asked me to find out what's happened to Sherlock, which is why I'm here and not with the family.'

Just then, the administrator became free and Henrique enquired as to the English detective's whereabouts.

'Are you family?' the woman asked.

'Yes, I'm his aunt,' Caro declared – which was close enough to the truth.

The admin woman tapped in Sherlock's name and studied her PC monitor.

'Ah, the head trauma,' she muttered, insensitively. 'He's currently in Radiology, undergoing a CT scan. I can direct you to there. You may be able to speak to the radiographer or to the trauma team treating him.'

Henrique thanked her, politely, and memorised the directions she gave. He and Caro followed them to the letter and arrived, a few minutes later, in Radiology. Glancing through the door window, Henrique could see the torso and legs of a patient, stretched out on the treatment bed of the CT scanner. It was an unusual angle but the length of leg, size of the feet and narrowness of hip were sufficient clues to convince him that it was, indeed, Sherlock, undergoing the diagnostic procedure.

Henrique guided his wife to the row of seats, outside the scanner suite, and they sat down to wait for the procedure to be completed. Half an hour later, the automatic double doors opened and Sherlock was wheeled out, on a gurney. The older couple rose and approached the recumbent man. Henrique explained to the porter that they were relatives of the patient. He invited them to come with him, back to the treatment room, where they would be able to speak with the Trauma Team. They followed the gurney back through the hospital corridors.

Caro was shocked by Sherlock's appearance. It was alarming to see him so still. He was usually vibrant and alive, bursting with energy. This was a pale imitation of the Sherlock she knew. The amount of dried blood in his hair and on the right side of his face, neck and shoulder, was deeply disturbing, but she tried to reassure herself that, if he needed blood, the hospital would be giving it to him, which they were not.

When they reached the Treatment Room, Caro moved to stand beside the gurney and took up Sherlock's hand. It was completely flaccid and felt cool to the touch. She stroked the back of it, watching his face, hoping for a response but none came. The doctor and one of the nurses were looking at the computer screen, on the wall, as the CT scan result was received from the Radiology Department. They scrutinised the images and read the report, discussing the result between themselves, then came over to speak with Henrique and Caro.

'Are you his parents?' the doctor asked.

'No, I am his aunt,' fibbed Caro, maintaining the pretence. 'His parents are both deceased. His wife is a patient in the hospital and his brother is on his way here, from London, so we are the closest thing to next of kin.'

'I am Henrique Maria Chagas de Sousa and this is my wife, Carolina Lyons de Sousa,' Henrique introduced them to the doctor. Using their full names would communicate to the doctor that they were from an old family. Such things were important in Brazilian society.

'Well, Senhor, Senhora de Sousa, the news is both good and not so good. It was our suspicion, based on the nature of the injury and his comatose state, that your nephew had an intracranial epidural haematoma. The CT scan has assured us that he does not. He does have a serious concussion and his lack of consciousness is concerning but, sometimes, in order to give itself the opportunity to recover from a severe trauma, the brain simply shuts down. I suspect this is the case with Sr Holmes.'

Caro could see how that could be a distinct possibility in Sherlock's case. It would be the logical thing to do.

'But we will carry out an EEG, to check for any cerebral dysfunction. It is a low tech procedure and only takes around forty minutes but it will put our minds at rest,' the doctor concluded.

'Does he have any other injuries,' Caro asked.

'He has some bruising of the ribs but the x-rays show they are neither cracked nor broken. It will be painful for a while, when he wakes up, but there is no permanent damage. He will be fitted for the EEG and then taken to the ICU, for care and observation. You can sit with him, if you wish.'

'His wife and children are here, under observation, too. She would like to see him. Would that be permissible?'

'Is she infectious?'

'No, not at all. She and the children were victims of an attempted abduction. They are traumatised.'

'Well, if her doctor has no objections, I have none either. She might persuade him to wake up.'

'We will go and give her the good news. Thank you, doctor.'

Caro patted Sherlock's hand and placed it back by his side. He had not moved a muscle, throughout the interview.

ooOoo


	40. Loose Ends Chapter 39

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Nine **

'Oh, he'll be hiding, alright, Caro. He's done it before. When that crazy Dame jabbed him with the snake venom, he hid in his Mind Palace for days. I bet that's where he is now. I can just see him, strolling around in there, like the Angel Islington.'

Caro glanced across at her husband, wondering if he felt as concerned as she did about the strange, nonsensical bent of Molly's statement. Had the recent events unhinged her? But Henrique was smiling and nodding. He seemed to know what the young woman was talking about.

The boys were both sleeping soundly, William in his hospital bed and Freddie in a cot, at the foot of Molly's bed.

'Would you mind staying with the boys, while I go and see him?' she asked. 'I need to give him a piece of my mind.'

'Of course not,' Henrique replied.

'But we do need to check with your doctor that it's OK for you to go,' Caro cautioned.

'I'd like to see the man who would dare gainsay it!' Henrique declared. But Caro went to ask, anyway, and, once the duty doctor had checked Molly's case notes, he was perfectly happy about the visit but insisted she be transported to ICU in a wheelchair. Agent Esteves, who had appointed himself as Molly's bodyguard, immediately volunteered to do the pushing. A wheelchair was sourced, Esteves wheeled Molly to Sherlock's sideward and then he adopted his 'on guard' position, outside the door, while she went in.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, in the recovery position, covered by a sheet and a light blanket. The nurses had cleaned him up, washing the blood from his hair, face, neck and shoulder. The head wound had been glued, so there had been no need to shave his hair, and were it not for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the saline drip that was attached to the cannula in the back of his hand, Molly could have imagined he was just sleeping.

She leaned over him and brushed the curls from his forehead, then bent to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. Close up, she could see the speckled bruising across his brow, evidence of the severe concussion. All things considered, from what she had been told, he had gotten off relatively lightly, this time. How many more lives, she wondered, did this cat have?

Molly pulled a chair up close to the hospital bed and sat down, sliding her hand under his, plaiting their fingers together.

'Well, here we are again, Mr Holmes. You never learn, do you! What am I going to do with you?'

Bending forward, she rested her cheek against his and whispered,

'If you don't wake up soon, I'm going to sing to you again. You remember what that's like, I'm sure! So, be warned!'

Then she began to hum, quietly, the melody of her theme tune for him.

_Here we are again? Here? Where? Where was here? And what exactly was he supposed to learn from being here – or there, where ever there, or here, might be? Oh, what was that infernal beeping noise? Really, a person couldn't get a moment's peace to think straight! _

_Do with him? How was he to know what she would do with him? He wasn't a mind reader. He couldn't even read his own mind, at the moment._

_Oh, threats, now! Threats of singing? He'd heard worse. Mycroft, for one. Couldn't sing a note. Well, not a correct note, anyway. And that sound was quite pleasant, actually. It was soothing, calming, comforting. It made him want to curl up close to something soft and warm. _

He let his mind get lost in the sound of humming and retreated back to the safety of his own head.

ooOoo

Molly spent a very disturbed night, plagued with nightmares of being chased down long, dark corridors but also rousing, every time a nurse came in to check on William. When Freddie woke her, the next morning, standing up in his cot and saying,

'Wateup, Mamama. Dayti'e!' she rolled out of bed, bleary eye, lifted him over the cotside and carried him to the en suite shower room, to remove his night nappy. It was dry, again. That had been the case for the last few nights. Maybe Freddie was ready to give up night nappies and move on to trainer pants. Another maturational milestone reached. Her babies were growing up so fast. She wondered whether hers and Sherlock's efforts over the preceding nights - and days - had born fruit, so to speak. She would know, in a week or so. She thought a silent prayer then opened the shower room door to return to still-sleeping William, only to find Mycroft standing by the boy's bed, looking down, fondly, at the child.

'Oh, Mycroft! Thank goodness you're here!' she exclaimed, rushing to meet him and throwing a grateful arm around his waist, as he enveloped both her and Freddie in a relieved hug.

'Molly, my dear, how are you and the children? Are you hurt?'

'No, no, not physically, at least,' she assured him. 'Freddie and I are fine but William had a terrible fright when the gun went off. It was just so loud! He had to be sedated but he's slept all night, which is probably the best medicine he could have. Have you just arrived?' she enquired, stepping back to look at Mycroft properly. He looked dreadful.

The normally immaculately groomed 'man from the ministry' looked, for the first time in her experience, unkempt. He had a five o'clock shadow and his three piece suit looked as though he had slept in it - which he had, on the plane, if one could actually call that series of fleeting cat naps 'sleep'.

'Not exactly,' he replied, looking apologetic. 'I went to see Sherlock first.'

'Of course you did, silly goose! How is he? Has he woken up yet?'

'No, he hasn't awoken but they've put an EEG cap on him, to monitor the electrical activity in his brain. Apparently, there is a great deal of hippocampal neocortical dialogue going on, which I'm sure you understand far better than I, and he is responding to external stimuli, just not overtly.'

Molly did understand what this meant. It was known that the hippocampus played a role in short to medium term memory, and the cortex in long term memory. The theory was that the hippocampal neocortical dialogue was a mechanism by which the hippocampus transferred information to the cortex. Therefore, the hippocampal neocortical dialogue was believed to play a role in memory consolidation. He was in his Mind Palace, as she had surmised.

'Situation normal, then,' she mused.

'I thought I might take Freddie to see him,' Molly then said, aloud. 'If anyone can wake him up, Freddie can. Would you mind sitting with William, just in case he wakes up while I'm gone?'

'Of course not, I'd be delighted,' Mycroft replied.

'Feel free to take the bed, Mycroft. You look just about done in!'

'I do apologise for my appearance, Molly. I must look a fright.'

'No, you don't. You just look like someone who hasn't been to bed for a very long time,' she scolded him, affectionately. 'Please, lie down before you fall down. I'll just be about half an hour.'

'Stay as long as you need to, Molly dear,' he insisted.

She thanked him, warmly, and left the room, to walk the short distance to ICU, carrying Freddie on her hip.

Mycroft looked longingly at the bed but opted, instead, for a straight-backed chair. He felt that if he allowed himself to succumb to sleep, there would be no waking him, such was his extreme level of fatigue. The last thing he wanted to happen was that William should awake and find no one able to comfort him. As a precaution, he went into the shower room and swilled his face with cold water then he pulled the chair up to the little boy's bedside and sat down, to keep vigil.

ooOoo

As Molly passed the nurses' station, on her ward, she was given a questioning look from the nurse on duty.

'I'm just going to see my husband', she explained and breezed by, not giving the lady any opportunity to object. She had no escort, this time, Agent Esteves having been relieved of his duty when Diaz rang to say that all threats to the family had been neutralised. But she found ICU and Sherlock's side ward easily enough and, pushing open the door, went in.

His position had changed. He was lying on his back, now, and wearing the EEG cap, which looked a little like a swimming hat made of mesh, with a large number of receptors attached to it, which picked up the electrical activity of his brain and transmitted it to a receiver, which could then be accessed for a read out and an analysis. The heart monitor was still beeping away, in the background, and the saline drip was still attached to the back of his right hand.

A nurse was standing by the EEG machine, checking the readout. When Molly entered, she turned and smiled.

'You are Senhora Holmes?' she asked.

Molly nodded. It was easier than trying to explain.

'How is my husband?' she enquired.

The nurse referred to the readout.

'His brain is very active, senhora. I think he is ready to wake up. He just needs encouragement,' she explained.

'That will be Freddie's job. He is very encouraging.'

The nurse smiled at Freddie and he grinned back, his sociable nature fully restored.

'I will leave you for a while, senhora. Please, call on the bell, if you need me.'

Molly nodded her thanks and the nurse left the room.

Walking around to the far side of the bed, she held Freddie where he could see his father's face.

'Look, Baby Boy, Daddy is sleeping,' she explained. Freddie looked and pointed and said,

'Dadada noohat?'

'Yes, Daddy's got a new hat. It's a sleeping hat. Do you like it?'

Freddie looked appraisingly then shook his head and said,

'No,' and then, 'Dadada wateup now?'

'Shall we try and wake him up?' she asked.

'Yet! Wateup, Dadada!' he shouted, quite loud.

'Sssh, no, Freddie, sweetheart, we mustn't shout at Daddy. He's like William, isn't he? He doesn't like loud noises. Let's whisper in his ear.'

She put Freddie on the bed, next to his father, and the little boy crawled up to lie across his shoulder, put his arms around his neck and put his lips right next to Sherlock's ear.

'Wateup, Dadada. Dayti'e. Fweddie doh swim inda poo' wi' Dadada?' he hissed – his version of a whisper.

The toddler then leaned back to look at his father's face, to see if his words were having any effect. Molly looked, too, watching in particular for any eye movement, under the closed lids. Nothing. She glanced at the EEG readout. There was a recent spike in the auditory cortex, inferring that he was not only receiving the stimulus but also processing it.

None the wiser but undeterred, Freddie put one hand up to his father's cheek and patted it, gently.

'Wateup, now. Beffus!' he urged, having not eaten yet that day.

'Shall we tickle him?' Molly suggested. Sherlock hated being tickled and his feet were particularly sensitive. She moved to the foot of the bed and untucked the sheet and blanket from the mattress, folding them back to expose his feet. Placing one finger on the pad of his left heel, she stroked along the arch, toward his toes.

The response was pretty instantaneous. He curled his toes and withdrew his foot, pulling his knee up toward his chest and rolling onto his right side. Freddie, who had been leaning on his left shoulder, tumbled with him and landed in a heap on the bed. Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed into the surprised face of his youngest son.

'Freddie?' he grunted.

'Du'mornin, Dadada!' he squealed.

'Where's Mummy?' he mumbled, still unaware of his surroundings.

Molly moved into view and he stared at her then turned his head to look around the room.

'Hospital? Not again….,' he sighed, rubbing his eyes and spotting the cannula in the back of his hand.

'Fraid so, babe,' she replied, wryly, reaching out to stroke the arm that he had wrapped around Freddie. 'And you're wearing a fetching hat.'

Sherlock ran his hand over his scalp, feeling the texture of the electrodes.

'Shall I ask the nurse to come and remove it?' she asked but he waved a dismissive hand.

'The plane,' he said, breathily, out of the blue.

'What plane?' she asked, perching on the edge of the bed and taking his left hand in hers.

'I recognised the insignia on the plane. It was the same as the card. And I remembered.' He obviously knew what he was talking about, even though she didn't, but she nodded, encouraging him to carry on.

'It was the same as the plane they used to bring me to Brazil, back then. It was his plane. He was part of the cartel. Then I knew.'

He paused, closing his eyes and licking his lips. His mouth was dry. Molly poured some water from the jug on the night stand into the spouted cup and offered it to him to take a sip, which he did, gratefully. He could remember everything but getting it into a coherent chronological order was not so easy. He pushed the cup away and went on.

'He must have used the plane to transport the drugs and the babies. He had diplomatic immunity. It was the perfect cover.'

'But how did you find out about the plane?' she prompted.

He thought for a moment before answering.

'In the Diners' Club. He showed me a photo. It was part of the deal.'

'So Oliviera had his own plane and he used that for drug and baby trafficking?' Molly asked, just to clarify.

He nodded then looked at Freddie, who was gazing at him, with an adoring expression on his face. He suddenly realised that both Molly and Freddie were wearing hospital gowns and his face clouded over.

'Why are….are you hurt? Where's William?' he demanded, instantly alarmed.

She shushed him, gently, and stroked his cheek.

'We are fine. Your friend, Esteves, rescued us.' She didn't tell him any of the details. There would be plenty of time for that, later, when he was more lucid.

'William is sleeping. Mycroft is with him,' she reassured him.

'Mycroft is here?' he was puzzled.

'Yes, Caro called him told him what happened and he caught an overnight flight. He came to see you but you were still hiding in your Mind Palace. We should tell the staff you're awake. They'll want to check you over. And I should tell Mycroft that you are OK.'

He nodded then asked,

'How did they find me?'

'They followed your instructions and checked the CCTV,' she replied.

He gave a crooked, self-satisfied, half smile and Molly pressed the button to call the nurse.

ooOoo

Sitting on the hard chair, next to William's bed, Mycroft's chin had dropped onto his chest and he was listing, dangerously, to one side. He inhaled sharply and jolted awake, as he almost over-balanced and fell off the chair. As he righted himself, he looked at the boy and saw that his sea green eyes were open and looking at him.

'William, dear boy!' he exclaimed, and reached out to stroke the child's head.

'Uncle Mycroft?' William was both surprised and confused at the sudden appearance of his uncle.

'Yes, dear boy, I came as soon as I heard what was happening.'

The little boy sat up and looked around the room.

'Are you alright?' Mycroft enquired, with concern. 'You had a terrible fright, I know, but are you alright now?'

William thought about the question and then nodded.

'There was a very loud noise. It hurt a lot. But it's alright now. It doesn't hurt anymore.'

Mycroft reached out and lifted the boy into his arms, hugging him close.

'Thank goodness for that,' he breathed, almost overcome with emotion.

William hesitated for a moment and then wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck and pressed his face against the man's collar bone.

'Do you like me again?' he asked.

'What?' Mycroft replied, momentarily stunned. He looked down into the boy's questioning expression.

'You stopped liking me, when Katy and Charlie came. But do you like me again now?'

The man was mortified at the boy's candid honesty. Had he really given the impression that he didn't like his nephew any more? He flashed back through his memories of the last twenty months and the awful truth dawned. No wonder the boy thought as he did. He had, quite unintentionally, abandoned the child.

'Oh, William, I love you! My darling boy, how could I be so stupid!'

He was doubly distressed, as he realised that he had done the self-same thing, many years before, to William's father, at about the same age. What a fool he was! Hadn't he once hoped to redeem himself for that selfish, thoughtless behaviour through his relationship with the injured party's son? And all he had done was compound the original hurt with a second, similar wound. He was filled with self-loathing.

'I am so sorry, William. Please, can you forgive me?'

William looked at his uncle, smiled and hugged him.

'Of course!' he declared. 'I love you, too, Uncle Mycroft. You are the best uncle I could ever have!'

ooOoo

**This story has now received 408 reviews! Wow! Thank you so much, everyone who has taken the trouble to read and review my story. I really appreciate your support and encouragement. Thank you, also, to everyone who has faved and followed both the work and myself. You are all wonderful!**


	41. Loose Ends Chapter 40

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty**

When Molly arrived back in the hospital room, she found William and Mycroft deep in conversation. She was relieved to find that William seemed himself again. The sedative had done its job well, relaxing his body and freeing his mind, to enable him to rationalise the terrifying events of the previous day. No doubt, there would be consequences, for all of them. She would definitely be booking a few sessions with Dr Matthews, when she got home, for herself and for William. She would have to wait and see what aftereffects Freddie evidenced. But, for now at least, her family all seemed safe and fairly sound.

'Mummy!' William cried, as she entered the room, 'Uncle Mycroft is here and he still loves me!'

'Of course he does, darling! He loves all of us. And we all love him,' Molly replied, giving Mycroft an apologetic smile, imagining how the conversation had probably gone, in her absence. William had Sherlock's manner of being very direct. As a child, he was mostly forgiven, but she wondered how well this would go down, in the world at large, as he grew older.

'Good news, Mycroft. His Lordship has awoken and seems to have all his faculties intact. He told me how he sussed out Oliviera. But I'll let him tell you himself. The doctor is with him, at the moment, just running a few tests but I told him you were here. I'm sure he'd like to see you,' she concluded.

Mycroft smiled and looked hugely relieved. He had sat by his brother's bedside on far too many occasions, over the years, both before and since their parents' untimely deaths, each time wondering how much of the Sherlock he knew and loved would still be there when his brother awoke. From drug overdoses, through Lyme Disease, injections of neurotoxin, sexual assault and now attempted murder, his brother seemed to have a certain penchant for being incapacitated in the line of duty. It was a miracle he was alive at all! But a miracle for which Mycroft was eternally grateful.

'I'll go and see him,' he told Molly and then, 'I rang Caro from the airport. She wants you and the boys to go and stay with her, when you leave here. She's invited me to stay there too. She said to ring, when they discharge you and she will send her car to collect you all. She feels responsible for all of this, for some reason, though I have told her that she is nothing of the sort.'

'Absolutely not! She has been so good to us. It will be nice to go back there, though. I don't know if I could stay in the hotel on my own with the boys, after what happened. I know it's silly but I wouldn't feel safe. And who knows for how long they will want to keep Sherlock in here.'

Mycroft bent to give her a peck on the cheek.

'I'll find out what I can and let you know what's happening,' and, with that, he left the room.

ooOoo

When Mycroft entered Sherlock's sideward, he found his brother sitting on the side of the bed, the centre of attention for a semi-circle of medical personnel. They all turned to look at him, as he pushed open the door and walked in. He crossed the floor and placed his hand on his sibling's shoulder. Sherlock looked up and read the concern in Mycroft's face.

'I'm fine,' he declared, this being his default response to all enquiries about his health and welfare, for as long as the older Holmes brother could remember.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to the hospital staff for a second opinion. The neurologist extended a hand to the new-comer and introduced himself as Dr Schmidt. Mycroft shook the hand and confirmed his own identity,

'Mycroft Holmes, head of the family and my brother's next of kin,' in deference to the importance placed on family in Brazilian society. 'How is the patient?'

'He is remarkably well, considering he has suffered two very heavy blows to his head,' Dr Schmidt replied, in perfectly enunciated English. 'A severe concussion, which will require rest and may cause poor concentration and difficulties with short-term memory for up to a month, but I expect him to make a full recovery. He seems to be quite a resilient young man.'

'Thank you, doctor. And, yes, too resilient for his own good, to be frank.'

'He also has badly bruised ribs, senhor,' put in the senior nurse. 'Painful but not life-threatening.'

'When can I leave here?' Sherlock asked, never keen to prolong his hospital confinements a moment beyond the absolute necessity.

'If you promise to rest, Sr Holmes, you may leave this morning. But, if you do not rest, you may find yourself back here before you know it.' The doctor clearly had the consulting detective's number.

'Worry not, doctor, there are a number of people dedicated to ensuring that my brother does as you advise. We are well practiced in saving him from himself,' Mycroft replied, with a knowing smile. Sherlock scowled but was just grateful that he would be getting out of here sooner rather than later.

The medics departed, leaving the brothers alone.

'What did they do with my clothes?' Sherlock asked, looking around.

Mycroft spotted a large plastic sack on the floor by the bed. He picked it up and put it on the mattress. Sherlock opened it and tipped out the contents. It contained all his clothing from the day before but looking rather the worse for wear. The toes of his shoes were badly scuffed, his trousers were covered in red dust and bits of straw, his jacket and shirt were soaked in dried blood, all down the right shoulder, sleeve and front panel.

'You don't have to wear those,' Mycroft suggested. 'I can ask Caro to bring something from your hotel suite.'

'It's alright,' Sherlock replied, 'I can change when I get there.'

'You're not going back to the hotel. You're going to Caro and Henrique's, as are Molly and the boys. You all need looking after, for the next few days, and I insist that you allow them to do that for you.'

'I still need to go to the hotel, to pick up clothing and whatnot,' the younger Holmes persisted.

'I will take care of that,' Mycroft was adamant. Sherlock was too weary to argue. The doctor had been right about the difficulty with concentration. His head ached, dully, and the urge to lie down was strong. He resisted that urge, stuffed the clothing back into the sack, picked it up and stood up, wobbling slightly from a sudden attack of dizziness. Mycroft reached out and placed a steadying hand under his elbow.

'Thank you,' he mumbled. 'I'm fine, now' and tottered off to the en suite shower room to change into his own clothes. Mycroft sat in the bedside chair and folded his hands in his lap, to wait for his brother to re-emerge.

ooOoo

Before the family could leave the hospital, William had to pass a psych assessment. The psychologist who came to check him over was impressed, not only with his recovery but with his Portuguese. She could hardly believe he had been in the country less than three weeks. She advised Molly, via William, as interpreter, what signs to look out for, which might indicate a relapse.

William assured her that he would put his memories of the frightening events into his Mind Ship and lock them away, where he knew they would not be able to hurt him. The psychologist was familiar with the concept of Mind Mapping but had not yet come across a five year old with such a complete grasp of the idea. She was impressed still more.

Sherlock was escorted by his brother to the family's hospital room and was relieved to see that William seemed none the worse for his terrible experience. For his own part, William was more than relieved to be reunited with his father.

'I told Mummy you would be alright,' he confided, when Sherlock picked him up to hug him, 'but it was only a hope. I didn't really know.'

'Well, your hope worked, Will. You must be good at hoping,' his father replied.

Hospital protocol insisted that Sherlock and Molly be pushed to the exit in wheelchairs. The consulting detective was unimpressed by the ignominy of it but capitulated in order to hasten their departure. With William sitting in his lap and Freddie sitting in Molly's, they were wheeled by hospital porters to the public entrance and met by Caro's driver. Once they were settled in the vehicle, it drove away, leaving Mycroft to take a cab to the hotel, where he had arranged to meet Caro, who would know better than he what the family might need for the next few days.

ooOoo

On his arrival at the Palace Hotel, Mycroft found Caro waiting in the coffee lounge. He greeted her with three pecks on the cheek, right, left and right again, just as his mother had taught him. He then sat, and ordered a strong coffee, much needed to forestall the wilt he was feeling. Caro was glad to know that the family were on their way to her home – had probably arrived, already, and been installed back in their rooms, so recently vacated.

'I do apologise for all the trouble we've put you to, Caro. We Holmes do impose on your hospitality,' he began.

'Mycroft, don't be ridiculous. You must know how much I enjoy having you stay and Sherlock and his family are an absolute delight. I'm only sorry it has to be under such desperate circumstances,' Caro interjected.

'Well, I must say there are not many people in the world who would describe my brother as delightful, although you are quite correct about his family. Molly and the boys have been the making of him.'

Caro's face clouded a little and she pursed her lips.

'I think we both know what was the making of him, dear boy, and on that subject I really do need to speak with you, while you are here,' she said, rather enigmatically.

'Please, Caro, speak freely. I am always grateful for your pearls of wisdom,' he replied.

'No, not here and not now. But soon, and when we are somewhere less public. Our priority now must be to collect the family's belongings.'

Having finished their coffees, they rose and approached the Reception desk, to explain their reason for going up to the penthouse suite. When Mycroft announced who he was, the Receptionist called the Duty Manager, who insisted on speaking to him and Caro in his rather plush office.

'Sr Holmes, I cannot apologise enough for our failure to protect your brother and his family, during their stay in our hotel. The fact that our security system was actually infiltrated by the perpetrators of these terrible crimes is a deep regret and we fully understand that your family no longer wish to stay here. However, if you and they could be so understanding, we would be eternally grateful if the facts of this unfortunate lapse were not made public.'

Mycroft was thoughtful for a moment before speaking.

'Sir, I assure you, my family has no desire for any of the recent events to become public knowledge. Far from it. And, so far as I am aware, my brother has made no plans to leave this hotel.'

The duty manager's face lit up with delight, at those words.

'However,' Mycroft continued, 'that is not to say that he has made plans to stay, either.'

The face fell again.

'But, for the time being, at least, the family will be staying with friends, whilst they all recover from their terrible ordeal. After that, the decision as to where they stay will be theirs to make, not mine.'

'Please, senhor, pass on our good wishes for a speedy recovery and advise Sr Holmes and the senhora that, should they choose to continue as our guests, there will be no charge for the use of their rooms for the remainder of their stay. It is the very least we can do.'

Mycroft was acutely aware that the last thing on Sherlock's list of priorities would be an offer of free accommodation. He would be far more concerned about exactly how safe Molly and the boys felt in the suite. That would be the deciding factor as to whether or not they returned. But he promised to relay the message, as he shook hands with the profusely apologetic man and then he and Caro went up to the suite, to collect the family's belongings.

ooOoo


	42. Loose Ends Chapter 41

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty**** One**

On their arrival at Caro's home, they were met by Giorgio, who showed them back to their old rooms and, before leaving them to settle in, announced that lunch would be served at midday. Sherlock sat down on the bed, looking rather the worse for the car journey. He was anxious to get out of his dirty clothing, too, since the smell of dried blood was not helping the nausea situation. But, with nothing yet to change into, he was resigned to putting up with it for a little longer. Molly, however, had other ideas. She insisted he strip off and get into bed.

He put up a strenuous opposition, but she was having none of it and, coming just short of actually undressing him, herself, eventually won the round. Within moments of his head touching the pillow, he was asleep, proving the doctor's point that he really was in need of rest. She took his shirt to Giorgio and asked if it could be soaked, in saline, to remove the blood stains. The suit would have to be dry cleaned. The shoes may never recover from being dragged along the ground, with his feet in them. That would remain to be seen.

Molly and the boys went out into the garden to relax and play and put the awful events of the day before behind them. This was where Caro found them, when she returned with Mycroft, and their belongings.

'How are you all, my dear?' she asked, hugging Molly and waving to William, who was in his favourite spot, in the crow's nest. Freddie had wrapped himself around her legs, by way of a greeting, and was currently nestled in her arms, smiling broadly.

'Well, as you can see, we all just had a nasty fright but we survived – thanks to Agent Esteves and you – and Sherlock proved that he has a skull like a bison, although it is going to take a while for the concussion to ease. He's just having a nap, now.'

'I've advised Mycroft to do the same. He's been up and about for over a day and a half now, due to the overnight flight and the time difference, so I sent him to his room – like a naughty boy!' Caro and Molly giggled so Freddie joined in. 'They will both benefit from a few hours rest, I think. And then I must have a serious talk with Mycroft.'

Molly looked puzzled.

'He still doesn't know what I told Sherlock and you about his parents' relationship,' Caro explained.

Molly's expression changed to one of shock.

'Oh, my goodness! With everything else that's been going on, would you believe I had actually forgotten about that? How is that possible?'

'Oh, easily possible, Molly dear. It's not every day you have members of a dangerous organised crime syndicate attempting to kidnap you, thank goodness! I can quite understand how that small detail might have slipped your mind! However, it is my responsibility to enlighten Mycroft. It would be quite unfair to expect poor Sherlock to do it. He is the main victim in all this – though Mycroft is a victim, too, in a different sense.'

'I know what you mean, Caro. They both suffered from the consequences of that dreadful act. It's very good of you to take this responsibility.'

'The responsibility has always been mine, Molly. I really should have told Mycroft sooner but it never seemed like the right time. However, that time has now come. Before he flies back to the UK, I must explain it all, and he plans to return tomorrow, now he knows you are all alright..'

'It's such a pity Arthur wasn't able to come with him,' Molly mused.

'Arthur?' Caro asked.

'Oh, I see you don't know! Arthur was the Army psychiatric nurse who looked after Sherlock, after the incident with The Woman. He and Mycroft became very close and now they are an item!' Molly explained.

Caro beamed, broadly.

'That is wonderful news. I have always thought that what Mycroft needed was a good man. I take it Arthur is a good man?'

'He's a lovely man. He's very caring and considerate but also very down to earth and funny. He's a Lancashire lad, a sort of rough diamond but he really cares about Mycroft and the children. I think he is going to be around for a very long time. And Mycroft really seems to adore him. You can see it in his eyes, whenever he looks at Arthur or even just when anyone mentions his name. It is rather lovely to see them together. Which is why I wish Arthur were here, now. Mycroft will be in need of his support, afterwards.'

Caro looked troubled but she shook her head.

'But I do have to tell him, Molly. I can't put it off any longer,' she declared.

'Oh, no, you are absolutely right to do so,' Molly agreed. 'We'll be here for Mycroft, and Arthur will be there when he gets home. I think he is about to get his discharge papers from the Army so he will be living permanently at the family house, soon. And, anyway, Caro, I know you will be sensitive when you talk to him. You will know exactly the right way to put it all.'

'I wish I had your faith in my diplomatic abilities, Molly, I really do. But I will do my best,' the older woman promised.

ooOoo

Both Holmes men slept through lunch and for the entire afternoon but emerged from their respective hibernations, looking refreshed and well-groomed, in time for afternoon tea, at four o'clock. Sherlock's hair looked a little tousled, due to the fact that he could only run his fingers through it, because of the glued gash above his right ear, but after a long shower and wearing a fresh shirt and his linen suit, he passed muster. Mycroft sported his usual business three piece and slicked back hair.

The cream and strawberry jam scones, and three different blends of tea, put everyone in a good mood, after which Caro turned to Mycroft and asked if she could see him in her study, to which he readily agreed. As they left the conservatory, Sherlock turned to Molly and gave her a questioning look.

'She's going to tell him what she told you, about your parents,' Molly explained, in a low voice.

'Then I should go, too,' he insisted. He went to stand but she put a restraining hand on his arm.

'Let Caro do it,' Molly advised. 'It really is her story to tell. She was the person in whom your mother confided, she was the witness to the aftermath. I think it will come easier for Mycroft from her. She has no axe to grind and she knew both parties very well.'

He could see the logic of her words but he still looked in the direction of the departing figures, feeling apprehensive about how his brother might take the news he was about to hear.

ooOoo

Once in Caro's study, the older lady invited Mycroft to be seated on the sofa, in the same place that Sherlock had sat, when she spoke to him. The elder Holmes brother sensed that whatever his mother's best friend wanted to talk about – and he knew it had something to do with Sherlock's formative years – was going to be unpleasant to say and to hear. That much was obvious. As to the content, he was completely in the dark and anxious to be enlightened. Caro collected her thoughts, as she had done last time she told this tale, and began.

ooOoo

Molly was about to suggest that she and Sherlock take the boys to see Caro's aviary when Henrique returned home and came straight through to the conservatory, to greet the family. He was delighted to see them all looking so remarkably well, especially Sherlock. He was also bursting with news about what had happened after the covert ops team stormed the abandoned racing yard. Molly took this as her cue to take the boys away. She knew Sherlock would fill her in later.

'Sr Oliviera has been a revelation,' Henrique declared, once Molly and the boys were out of earshot. 'I believe the term is 'singing like a bird', to quote the old Hollywood gangster films. It would appear that he has been 'in bed' with the bad boys for most of his political career. In return for his assistance, the organised crime bosses have lent their support to his campaign budgets, which has ensured that he could progress up the career ladder so successfully.'

'But how did he keep that a secret? Weren't his finances scrutinized?' Sherlock asked.

'In deed, they were, but money laundering is always available to those who know how to do it. All these organised crime moguls have their legitimate businesses.'

'So how did he get involved in the first place? Wasn't he a military hero?'

'He was. And that was why he was targeted by the crime bosses. He had a ready-made platform and public profile but also a useful skill – that of a pilot. He was recruited straight out of the Air Corp. He was bank rolled to take his civil pilot training and qualification and started to work for them straight away. His diplomatic immunity coupled with his flying ability have been very useful for transporting drugs, babies, women - for the sex trade - boys also, you name it. His plane has been very busy.'

'That is what gave him away to me,' Sherlock explained. 'When you gave me his card, something started to prick my memory but it wasn't until he showed me a photo of his plane and I saw that insignia on the tail fin that the significance became clear. The plane that brought me to Rio, five years ago, to meet with Moriarty's lieutenant, carried the same insignia.

My memories of that period were compromised and I'm obviously still concealing some but the insignia was the key to retrieving that one. Then I remembered where I had seen Oliviera before. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of the pilot of that plane but it was definitely him. It seemed obvious to me, then, that a private plane and a diplomatic passport would be a gift to anyone wishing to fly stolen babies out of the country. Unfortunately, I gave myself away, either to him or to the heavies who were watching us.

I knew my cover was blown and I needed to warn Molly. I couldn't hail a cab because I suspected they would have one of their own waiting to pick me up. When I ducked down the alley, I hoped to evade the cabbie. I didn't realise I was being tailed on foot. I always miss something,' he confessed, ruefully.

'The first thing I knew was when I woke up in the boot of a car, and then again, being carried over a man's shoulder.' Sherlock smiled, much to Henrique's surprise.

'What is funny about that, Sherlock,' he asked.

'Being upside down and also concussed had an unfortunate effect. It caused me to vomit, all down the back of the man's legs. He dropped me on the ground, not at all pleased, but when I saw his face, I knew him. It took me a while to recall from where but then it came to me. I had thrown up on him once before, in the back of a car, the last time I was in Rio. He must think I have a personal grudge against him!' and he laughed, a deep, throated chuckle.

Henrique shook his head, bemused at how his young friend could find anything remotely amusing about his near death experience. But he went on to describe to the other man how they tracked the car, using the traffic cameras, and how the criminals were apprehended and Sherlock rescued.

'I am very grateful to you and Sr Diaz for saving me but, more importantly, for rescuing Molly and the boys.' He spoke with sincerity to the older man.

'And we are extremely grateful to you, my friend, for uncovering this corruption within our own government. Oliviera picked the wrong man when he tried to use you to lay a smoke screen, by pointing the finger at Diaz. He grossly under-estimated you but he was in far over his head. His wish to slip away into retirement will come true, now, but not in the manner in which he imagined,' Henrique concluded, referring to the lengthy prison sentence the former minister could expect to receive, when this eventually came to court.

ooOoo

Mycroft rubbed his chin then clasped his hands in his lap.

'I am not surprised, Caro,' he declared. 'Shocked, but not surprised.'

The lady looked at him with a wrinkled brow, wondering what exactly he meant. He seemed to have taken her revelations remarkably well but she was accustomed to this man's ability to conceal his true feelings behind a blasé mask of indifference. She remained silent, inviting him to elaborate.

'I remember the period of time you refer to. I was only a small boy – about William's age – when my mother employed my piano tutor, Mr Vara. Even though I was quite young, I was also quite perceptive. I knew that my mother liked Mr Vara. I didn't know how much, of course.

I was at school, when Mummy was taken ill. When I arrived home in the afternoon, she was gone, taken to hospital. That was all I was told. I couldn't understand how she had become so ill so quickly. She was perfectly fine when she kissed me goodbye in the morning. Then I didn't see her for weeks and when I asked where she was and what was wrong with her, no one would tell me.

My father was away on various diplomatic missions, most of the time she was in hospital, and he didn't seem very concerned about her. He never went to see her and when I asked if I could go to see her, I was told she was too ill for visitors. That made me think she must be dying, which frightened me so much, I stopped asking about her, just in case they told me she was dead. I used to cry, in bed at night, but Nanny Rogers told me I should be brave, like a little man, not cry like a little girl.'

He paused there, remembering those nights of trying to cry silently, so Nanny wouldn't hear.

'When Mummy came home from the hospital, she was still very frail. I was only allowed to see her once a day and only for a few minutes. Father came and went, as he always did. I asked him, once, if Mummy would ever get better. He told me that caring was not an advantage, that all lives end and all hearts were broken. That just confirmed my suspicion that Mummy was, after all, dying. And I did try not to care but I failed, miserably.'

Caro's heart nearly broke at the very idea of a six year old boy trying not to care about his own mother, in order to please his father. What a harsh man Randolph Holmes had been, on so many levels.

'I remember you coming to stay, Caro,' he went on. 'You were like a ray of sunshine. As soon as you arrived, Mummy started to get better. You got her out of her room, got her out into the garden. When I came home from school, in the afternoons, we would all have tea together. She started to smile and laugh again.

Then she told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister and she seemed quite happy about that. I was happy about it, too, but Father seemed annoyed. I thought that maybe it was the new baby that had made Mummy ill and that was why he wasn't happy. But, when the baby arrived, everything changed. Mummy seemed unhappy and Father seemed pleased. He didn't want to have anything to do with Sherlock but, on the odd occasion when he came across him – out in the garden with Nanny Rogers or something – he would smile and look rather self-satisfied. Now, at long last, I know why.'

'I am so sorry, Mycroft. I have kept this from you for far too long. I really should have told you sooner.' Caro was mortified.

But Mycroft reached out and took her hand.

'None of this is your fault, my dear lady. You have behaved like a true friend throughout this whole sorry saga, first to our mother, in her time of greatest need, and, since, to me and to Sherlock and his family. You have nothing whatsoever for which to apologise.'

He sat back and steepled his fingers, tapping his chin with the tips, for a few moments, then folded his hands, once more, in his lap.

'I always knew my father was a hard man – cold and utterly ruthless – and I learned, as I grew older, that his relationship with my mother was a business arrangement rather than a real marriage. I knew there was no love lost between them. But I never imagined he would be capable of such a barbaric act. Poor Mummy. Imagine finding love and then having it snatched away? She must have led such a sad life.'

He lapsed into silence again but Caro sensed he was not done with speaking, so she waited for him to continue which, eventually, he did.

'I was also well aware that she spoiled me partly to annoy my father. He used to accuse her of trying to make me soft and she would say that she was just trying to redress the balance. They did argue over me quite a lot. Father could hardly wait for me to turn thirteen so he could pack me off to boarding school and remove me from her influence.

He took me to school, you know. He would never let her do it. He said he didn't want any embarrassing public displays of emotion. If he wasn't available, it would be the chauffeur. I took Sherlock to school. Neither Mummy nor Father could be bothered. He was just an inconvenience.'

For the first time, Caro detected a hint of emotion in his voice but his eyes remained clear and his face impassive as he went on.

'I always blamed myself, you know. I felt guilty that Mummy obviously loved me more than she did Sherlock and I believed that, somehow, it was my fault. I did try to make it up to him, in the beginning, by being extra nice. God, that sounds terrible! I wasn't pretending to love and care for him. He was my brother and I really did – do – love him. And he was always so pleased to see me, when I came home from school.

I used to read him stories and we would play hide and seek. In a house the size of ours – not to mention the grounds – a game of hide and seek could last for hours. He was very good at hiding. He could stay still for ever. I know he used to drive Nanny Rogers mad, hiding from her. Sometimes, he would just sit in a corner and disappear. She would be hunting everywhere and he would be right there, under her nose!' Mycroft laughed at the memory of it but his face quickly sobered.

'He was such a sad little soul. When I went away to school, I know he missed me terribly but when I came home, he was so demanding. I started to dread coming back for the holidays. In the end, I pushed him away, too.'

He covered his face with his hands and now it was Caro's turn to be the comforter.

'This isn't your fault, either, Mycroft. You have always done the best you could for everyone. You tried to live up to your father's expectations – and succeeded, I might add, far beyond his wildest dreams. You were always caring and loyal to your mother, even though you knew she was over-indulgent partly to defy your father, and you have always tried to keep Sherlock out of trouble, despite his best efforts to find it around every corner. You have been the ring master, keeping this circus running smoothly, for most of your life.

I loved your mother very dearly but I knew the way she treated both you and Sherlock was wrong. And, the thing is, she knew it was wrong, too, but she couldn't stop herself. She was never the same after that day.

But she did love you and your brother, both of you. She told me. She wrote to me and told me.'

Mycroft rubbed his face with the heels of his hands and looked up.

'After your mother died, the solicitor sent me a package. It contained a letter and some photographs. I gave them to Sherlock. But I also took the liberty of bringing them here, today, from the hotel suite. I think he will want to show them to you.'

Caro stood up and leaned over to hug him.

'I'm going to go, now, and send Sherlock in here. I think the two of you need to talk.'

ooOoo


	43. Loose Ends Chapter 42

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Two**

When Caro returned to the conservatory, looking ashen, Henrique and Sherlock rose to their feet.

'My darling, do come and sit down. You look dreadful,' Henrique exclaimed, offering his hand to his wife.

'I am alright, Henrique, thank you. But, Sherlock, I think your brother would like to talk to you, dear,' she advised. As he went to pass her, on his way out of the room, she caught hold of his arm.

'I told him about your mother's letter and the photographs of her and Aadi. I think he would like to see them.' Before Sherlock could comment, she went on.

'I found them in the drawer by your bed, when I was looking for your phone charger. I'm afraid I took the liberty of bringing them here. They are in the top drawer of my desk.'

He nodded and headed off toward the study. Caro sat down, heavily, and Henrique squeezed her hand, offering silent sympathy.

'Oh, those poor boys. I do hope I haven't just ruined their lives,' she groaned.

'Caro-mia, whatever happens, those young men know that you only have their best interests at heart.'

'Is that always enough, I wonder?' she replied.

ooOoo

When Sherlock opened the door to Caro's study, Mycroft was standing by the window, looking out at the garden. He turned, when he heard his brother enter the room. The two men stood and looked at one another. Mycroft spoke first.

'Sherlock, I don't know what to say.'

'Well, whatever you say, please don't say sorry, 'he replied, with an emphatic hand gesture.

Mycroft smiled.

'You know me far too well, brother. Caro said she gave you a letter and some photos?'

Sherlock walked to the desk and sat in Caro's chair.

'Yes, she did and you have every right to see them.'

Mycroft sat on the sofa and looked at his brother, who steepled his fingers under his chin.

'But?' Mycroft prompted. 'I sense a 'but'.'

Sherlock seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Mycroft could do nothing to assist him. He had no idea what battle was going on in his brother's head. He could only wait.

At last, the younger man found what he was looking for.

'You knew her, before?'

Mycroft nodded.

'Was it really obvious, afterwards, that something had changed?'

Mycroft had to think about that. He had, after all, been only a child, though a perceptive one.

'One day she was just Mummy, as I had always known her, and then, suddenly, she was ill. I didn't see her, at all, for weeks and then, for more weeks, I saw very little of her. And, as you must remember, when you're a child, weeks last for ever. But, no, after she was taken ill – which, of course, I now know was not an 'illness' – she was never the same Mummy again.'

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft could see by his brother's rapid eye movement that he was processing that information and filing it in the right position in his internal storage system. Abruptly, and without a further word, he opened the top drawer in the desk, withdrew a large brown envelope, and handed it to his brother, before sitting back and steepling his fingers again.

Mycroft felt apprehensive, wondering what to expect from this mysterious letter and collection of photos. He decided to read the letter first, reached inside the larger envelope and withdrew the smaller one.

He recognised his mother's handwriting, immediately, and felt a sudden surge of emotion. His mother used to write to him, at school, every week. Where ever she was, whatever she was doing, she never missed a week and, sometimes, she would send postcards from exotic places. He had kept all her letters and cards, in a box, at home but he hadn't looked at them for years. Holding that envelope in his hand had transported him back nearly thirty years.

He slid the letter out, unfolded the sheets and began to read.

Sherlock watched his brother's eye movements as he scanned from left to right, across the page, again and again. The younger Holmes knew the letter by heart, now, having read it many times, and he could tell from Mycroft's facial expressions which part he was reading, at any given time. Having read it once, he went back and read it again, then sat holding the sheets of paper, looking down, mulling over their contents. Then he folded the pages and returned them to the envelope before taking out the sheaf of photos.

The instant he looked at the top photo, he gasped, closed his eyes and pressed the hand holding the photos to his chest. His free hand came up to cover his eyes and Sherlock watched, in alarm, as his stoical brother, the infamous Ice Man, began to leak tears. He sat, frozen in his seat, for several moments then suddenly came out of his shocked stupor. He moved to the sofa and put a tentative hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

Up to this point, Mycroft had seemed so calm, so in control. Even the letter – the thing that had affected Sherlock so much - had been read with barely a flicker. But the merest glimpse of a photograph had been his undoing. It was unnerving to see his big brother so beside himself. It was the wrong way round. It was always Mycroft who was there for him. He wasn't sure he knew how to do the 'being there'.

But feeling his brother shake under his hand overrode his natural reticence. He reached his arm around Mycroft's shoulders and pulled his head into his chest, splaying his long fingers over the other man's crown. Mycroft wrapped one arm around his brother but kept the photos pressed to his heart. Whatever he had seen, in that fleeting glimpse, had struck him to the core. He needed to give vent to that rush of emotion before he could even begin to explain where it came from.

ooOoo

It was quite some time later that Mycroft pushed himself upright and leaned his head against the backrest of the sofa, feeling utterly exhausted. He knew what Sherlock was desperate to know. In a husky voice, he said,

'It was just seeing her again, the real Mummy, the one who kissed me goodbye that day and then disappeared for ever.'

He held up the photo for Sherlock to see. It was the one of the young woman with her head thrown back, laughing, eyes shining. Sherlock had never known this Violet but Mycroft had. Just one look had brought all the pain and loss of a frightened, six year old boy flooding back. Sherlock nodded, in realisation and understanding. He could just imagine what effect it would have on William or Freddie if, in the space of a day, the Molly they had known all their lives suddenly vanished and was replaced by a mere shell, a shadow of her former self. They would be bereft.

The brothers sat, side by side and looked at the photos together and Mycroft told Sherlock about the two people pictured there, since he had known them both. He had many anecdotes about the fun they'd had, all three of them, together. The couple had fallen in love before Mycroft's eyes but he had been too naïve to know what was happening.

'When one thinks about it, it was a 'no win' situation for me, either way,' Mycroft observed. Sherlock was not sure what he meant by that remark.

'If you had been Aadi's baby, Mummy and you would have left and I would have stayed with Father. He would never have allowed me to see either of you. Because you were Father's son, you both stayed but Mummy was completely different. I actually wish Aadi had been your father. At least you and Mummy would have been happy.'

'Don't!' Sherlock interjected. 'Don't say 'what if'. That way lies madness. This is who we are, this is where we came from. And Mummy would never have been happy separated from you. She might have loved me more but she could never have loved you less.'

Mycroft barked a strange, harsh rasp of a laugh.

'Listen to us, talking about love and happiness. Whoever would have imagined such a thing? How did that happen, Sherlock? What happened to love being a defect found in the losing side?' he asked, rhetorically.

'I suppose we just got lucky,' his brother replied.

Sherlock directed his sibling to the guest cloakroom, just down the corridor, to douse his face in cooling water and calm the effects of his prolonged bout of weeping. Seeing the past from Mycroft's perspective had been a sobering experience. He had always envied his older brother, often resented his privileged place in the hearts of both their parents. He'd had no concept of how bereaved his brother had felt at the loss of the mother only he had known. Sherlock had so many questions but they couldn't be asked all in one go. There was a lot more talking to be done, but not right now.

He went in search of Molly and his boys, feeling a great need to reaffirm his connection to his family, to feel the warmth and security that connection provided, that had been so lacking for the greater part of his life.

ooOoo

Sherlock accompanied Mycroft to the airport, the next morning, on strict instructions from Molly that he return straight 'home' afterwards and not go off on any madcap adventures. It was the first time he had seen his brother off on a journey, since he used to wave tearful goodbyes at the back of a retreating car, when Mycroft would go back to school. He even felt a bit like he'd felt, back then. This sharing of the family tragedy had brought them, somehow, closer together.

They sat opposite one another, in the private lounge that the elder Holmes' diplomatic status guaranteed. In his hand luggage, Mycroft had the package containing the letter and the photos. Sherlock had insisted he take them home, to share with Arthur. Molly had already seen them, so it was fitting that his brother's partner should see them, too. And Sherlock felt sure that Arthur would know exactly the right words to say, to enable Mycroft to begin to come to terms with Caro's revelations.

When the flight was called, the brothers stood up and looked at one another. This was virgin territory for both of them. They were about to commit the ultimate sin – a public display of affection. Casting caution to the wind, they both stepped forward and clasped one another in a warm embrace.

'Do try to keep out of trouble, for the remainder of your stay,' Mycroft implored.

'I don't go looking for it. It just seems to find me,' Sherlock replied and then watched as his brother crossed the room and disappeared through the departure door, before turning and making his own way out of the lounge, though the airport and back to Caro's waiting car.

ooOoo


	44. Loose Ends Chapter 43

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Three**

For the following week, Sherlock was kept on a very tight rein by Molly, who monitored his activity levels, and insisted he take regular rest and did not over exert himself. He might have rebelled, were it not for the fact that he did find he tired easily and that he was having trouble with concentration and short-term memory. He kept quiet about this and just did as he was told, hoping to gain brownie points, for being a good boy.

Toward the end of the week, as they lay in bed, thinking about getting up for a leisurely breakfast, he broached the subject of returning to the hotel. He needed to know how Molly felt about living back there, where she and the boys had been so traumatised.

'I think it's important that we do return,' Molly declared. 'It's like when Mad Mother Moriarty was in our flat. I had to make myself go back there, otherwise she would have won. And I think it's important for the boys that we go back, too.'

'So, when would you like to return?' he asked.

'When you're back to normal,' she replied, adding, with a cheeky grin, 'or as close to normal as you ever are.'

'I am normal, now,' he stated, with a horizontal shrug.

'No, you're not,' she answered.

He gave her a quizzical look. When had she become so good at deducing him?

'Well, you're not, are you?' she insisted.

'Alright, I'm not, but how do you know?' he asked.

Well, for one thing, you haven't noticed that my period is two days late and that my temperature is elevated by one degree. And, yes, I know that's two things. Or that I didn't have any premenstrual symptoms this month and that is three things. So, you are really off your game, Mr Holmes.'

He looked at her, feeling a little stunned, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before breaking into a cautious grin.

'Are you sure?'

'Pretty sure.'

'Not completely sure?'

'Not sure enough to put an announcement in the paper or put its name down for a good school, kind of sure, no. But, you know me, I'm usually as regular as clockwork. And the fact that my boobs haven't been two cup sizes bigger than usual and throbbing fit to bust – pardon the pun - for the last week is a major indicator,' she concluded.

He pulled her to him and placed a big, wet kiss on her forehead, before pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

'So when will you know for certain?' he asked.

'A week, maybe two,' she replied.

'Not long to wait, then.'

'No, not long.'

ooOoo

A week later, Molly was certain enough to risk a pregnancy test, and got the two blue stripes she was hoping for. But she and Sherlock agreed to keep the news to themselves for now, rather than tempt fate – Molly being as superstitious as ever. They also decided it was time to move back to the hotel, for the remainder of their trip.

Caro and Henrique were sorry to see them go, especially Caro, who loved having the children around. But they understood the reasoning behind the decision and were comforted by the knowledge that the family were not that far away and still had three weeks of their holiday left.

Molly knew she needed to go back to the hotel without the children, first and, before that, to practice the relaxation and ideation techniques she had learned from Eve Matthews. Sherlock agreed to be her coach. They scheduled their first session for that very evening, as soon as the boys were in bed.

She lay on the bed, feeling calm and composed. Sherlock sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough for her to hold his hand, if she needed to do so.

'Ok, tell me where you are,' he prompted.

'I'm sitting by the pool, with the boys. We just had lunch, so now Freddie is having his nap and William is playing on the tablet.'

'What's happening now?'

'My mobile is ringing. I fish it out of my bag and answer it. It's you. You're telling me to take the boys and go back to the suite, lock ourselves in and call Caro to come and get us.'

She could feel her heart rate begin to increase and hear it pounding in her ears. She paused and repeated the relaxation techniques, until she felt back in control, then went on. Moment by moment, she related and relived the whole terrifying ordeal, pausing when she felt her emotions getting the upper hand and going through the calming protocol, continuing when she felt able.

Sherlock, who had not previously heard this full, blow-by-blow account of the incident, listened with a mounting sense of horror, at how close his family had come to being lost forever, but also an overwhelming feeling of respect for Molly's calm and efficient out-thinking of the thugs sent to 'deal' with her and the boys.

When the story ended, with the paramedics, Caro and Agent Esteves taking them to safety along the third floor corridor, Molly opened her eyes and looked up at Sherlock.

'Should I have stayed in the hotel suite? Did I make it worse by trying to run away, when you told me to stay put?,' she asked.

He put his hands on her shoulders and shook his head, vehemently.

'Absolutely not!' he declared. 'Your instincts were completely right. You were trapped there, cornered. If you had been in the suite, the goons would have gotten to you before Agent Esteves did and…'

He had to stop, there, because even contemplating what might have happened if Molly and the boys had been caught by two heavies was so unbearable, he couldn't bring himself to voice it. He closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath then lay down on the bed beside her and put his head on her shoulder, wrapping his arm around her and holding her tight. She placed her hand on the nape of his neck and breathed into his hair.

As the moment passed, Sherlock ran his hand down to rest on Molly's abdomen, just above the pubic bone, then he slithered down the bed until his head was level with his hand and leaned in to whisper,

'Hello, little girl, are you listening? This is your daddy speaking. If you are only half as clever, brave and beautiful as your mother – which is probably the best we can hope for, since half of you comes from me – you will be a force of nature.'

Molly giggled and he looked up, in mock offense.

'I just gave you a glowing reference to our unborn child and you think it's funny?' he retorted, indignantly.

'She – and I can say with complete certainty that at this point in time she is a she, although whether she stays that way remains to be seen – is only three weeks gestated and, therefore, has no functional ears with which to hear your glowing reference, which I agree was glowing and I thank you for it.'

He crawled back up the bed to look her in the eye and said, with a very serious expression,

'I thought I was supposed to be the one with no soul. Can't a man employ a spot of poetic licence, once in a while? That's the trouble with you scientists, you always have to be so factually accurate.'

At which point, she pulled him down on top of her and bruised his lips with her own. When he came up for air, he looked at her again and said,

'We are still having sex, aren't we?'

'At this precise moment? No, I think I would have noticed,' she replied, acerbically. 'However, Mister Holmes, as one scientist to another, I can assure you that, by now, my cervix has been sealed with a plug of mucus so whatever we get up to will have no effect on the baby, except possibly, when she develops ears, she might want to complain about the noise.'

'I'll take that as a yes, then,' he replied, and set about making it so.

ooOoo

The following day, the couple left William and Freddie with Caro while they went back to the hotel, to do the 'dummy run', as Molly called it. The Duty Manager was beside himself with relief that the family intended to resume their residency in the penthouse suite, and wanted to accompany them up there, to point out all the cleaning and tidying that had gone on in their absence, but Sherlock insisted that this was not necessary and brushed him off with a politely dismissive gesture.

He and Molly entered the lift and he stood, watching her, scanning for any signs of distress, but she was calm and relaxed, breathing evenly and showing no adverse responses what so ever. When the lift stopped, at the top floor, and the doors opened, Sherlock squatted down and looked at the point where the Rubix Cube had been jammed into the tracking groove, stopping the door from closing.

'That was a great piece of deduction on your part, Molly, to realise you needed to disable the lift, and a brilliant piece of improvisation on William's part.'

'Well, living with you has rubbed off on me and he is your son, after all,' she replied.

He stood up and gave her an old fashioned look, shaking his head.

'Learn to take a compliment, Miss Hooper, please,' he admonished. She gave him an embarrassed smile and walked past him, out of the lift and along the corridor. But, instead of going to their suite door, she went passed it, and through the door to the stair well. Standing on the landing, she leaned over the banister and looked down.

Three floors below, the third floor landing looked clean and polished and perfectly normal. There was nothing to remind her of the drama that had played out, there, just two weeks before. She turned and walked back onto the top corridor and along to their suite, putting the key card into the lock and pushing open the door.

They were met by the powerful scent of cut flowers. In the centre of the circular table was a huge vase full of a heady selection of roses, gardenias, orchids and lilies. A card, lying next to the vase, read:

From the staff and management of the Palace Hotel, with our sincerest apology for the recent lapse in attention to duty. Please be assured of our best efforts in the future.

'Oh, how sweet!' Molly cried.

'Yes,' commented Sherlock, with a wry purse of his lips. Flowers always reminded him of funerals, most especially lilies. Rather inappropriate, he thought, but Molly seemed none the wiser, so he did not pursue it. If she was happy, he was happy. He followed her out onto the balcony and they stood, hand in hand, looking out at the glorious view.

'I've missed the ocean,' she said. 'Strange how you get used to a sound and a smell so much that you don't notice them – until they're not there.'

She breathed in the ozone scent and listened to the crashing waves and thought how much it reminded her of making love. Despite everything bad that had happened, this had been a magical holiday. And it wasn't even over yet.

ooOoo

**A/N: Since a number of people have raised this question, for clarification of the country of origin for Violet's lover, can I please refer you to this website? - ** wikipedia - Expulsion of Asians from Uganda. **I hope this clears up any confusion.**

**Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following.**


	45. Loose Ends Chapter 44

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**As the biggest threat to the traditional way of life of the indigenous tribes of the Amazon is now hydroelectricity and mineral mining, I have adjusted the references in the Prologue accordingly. **

**Chapter Forty Four**

Having spent the morning in and around the pool with Caro, William and Freddie were just finishing lunch when Henrique arrived home. He was nominally retired but still acted as a consultant for the company he co-owned and he liked to keep his finger on the pulse of the business world. It was a fast moving environment and he was loath to be caught napping. But being both the senior partner and retired meant he could dictate his own hours, so often called it a day and came home at lunch time.

Freddie was due to go down for his afternoon nap so Henrique asked William if he would like to accompany him to The Thinking Place – which was the name they had given to the stand of trees at the top of the hill. Henrique was still in the process of constructing his Mind Tree and William was helping him with that.

'I have some things I need to put in the Brig in my Mind Ship, too,' the little boy explained. He wanted to get the last of the memories of that horrible day locked up before he returned to the hotel. He had taken care of most of them but, just this morning, the image of a hand, holding a gun, resting on a banister, had popped unbidden into his mind so he needed to secure that away.

They walked up the hill, chatting in a companionable way. Henrique had grown very fond of the Hooper-Holmes family, over the preceding five weeks, but especially of William. The little boy was so serious and intense, old beyond his years. He looked at everything with an enquiring eye and noticed how things connected together in unusual ways.

But he was also just a five year old boy, who enjoyed a bit of rough and tumble, who got grouchy when he was over-tired and who loved to play pirates. Having no children of his own and no nephews or nieces who were particularly close, Henrique had never imagined what it might be like to be a grandfather but, when he was with William and Freddie he thought he understood how that special relationship could be shared between two generations, separated by a third.

On reaching the stand of trees, they threaded their way through to the one special tree – right in the centre – and Henrique spread the blanket they had brought, just for this purpose, on the ground. They both sat down and each went into their own Mind Place – the boy to his ship and the man to his tree – and went about their individual tasks.

It was some time later that William heard a sound that grabbed his attention and snapped him straight out of his Ship and back to the stand of trees. He opened his eyes and looked around. The noise had been barely discernable but there was something about it that demanded to be heard. As he looked around, he slowly became aware of several figures standing in a group amongst the trees.

They were adults – men and women – but they were quite small. They had very dark skin and straight black hair. Their noses were broad and rather flat and their cheekbones were high and sculpted and painted with strange markings. They were dressed in tee shirts and shorts but also wore strings of brightly coloured beads and feathered head dresses. They stood, still and silent, and looked at William with sharp, black eyes. Then one of them, the one in the middle, broke into a broad smile, completely dispelling any feelings of apprehension the small boy may have had and William smiled back.

'Olá. Em que é que posso ajudar?' he asked.

'Can you help me with what?' Henrique asked, jolted out of his own Mind Place by William's sudden enquiry.

'No, not you,' William replied, 'the other people,' and he pointed to the group of Indians, standing under the trees.

Henrique was surprised but not alarmed to see Indians. He had seen them before, from time to time, passing across his land, on their way from here to there, but always at a distance and always on the move. He had never known them to stop and he had certainly never known them attempt to make contact but it was obvious that these people wanted his attention, wanted to speak to him, had something they wanted to say.

There were many indigenous ethnic groups in Brazil and each had their own distinct language or dialect but most – apart from the very remote and the, as yet, Uncontacted - spoke Portuguese.

Henrique repeated William's enquiry.

'Olá. Em que é que posso ajudar?'

'Nós estamos olhando para Inglês, Senhor Holmes' said the man in the middle, who was clearly the leader or, at least, the spokesperson. They were looking for the Englishman, Mr Holmes.

ooOoo

When Caro glanced out of the window of her study, she could hardly believe her eyes. Her husband was walking across the lawn, holding William by the hand and accompanied by seven Indians. But they were not local people. These people wore tribal markings, painted or tattooed on their faces, and were clearly indigenous people from the forest, not from the city.

Caro left her study and walked through the house to the Afternoon Sitting Room, where the big French doors stood open. She stepped outside and waited for the strange procession to appear around the corner of the house. Then she walked forward, smiling. The entire party came to a halt and Henrique introduced Caro to them, as his wife.

'These people have travelled a long way, Caro-mia,' he explained. 'They are hungry and thirsty and they are our guests.'

She immediately turned and went back into the house, calling for Giorgio, and asking him to bring fruit and cold meats from the kitchen, along with a big jug of iced water and another of lemonade. In the meantime, the visitors were sitting down on the patio, in front of the French doors, peering into the gloomy interior but showing no desire what so ever to enter.

When Caro emerged, once again, carrying a tray of food which she placed on the patio table, they waited to be invited to help themselves but then got stuck in and began, enthusiastically, devouring everything on offer. William was chatting in Portuguese to the group leader so Caro took the opportunity to ask Henrique to what they owed the honour of a visit from these usually reclusive forest dwellers.

'The leader, Chi'ipa, says he knows Sherlock. He says his people helped our friend, when he was here before and now they need Sherlock's help. They heard that he was back in Brazil so they came looking for him. They were told, at the favela, that he was here. So they came here.'

Caro shook her head in amazement. In all the years she had lived in Brazil, this was the first time she had met and spoken to any of the indigenous tribespeople. Sherlock had been here for less than a week, last time he came, but had clearly made quite an impression on these people.

ooOoo

Sherlock and Molly were in Caro's car, on their way back from the hotel, when his phone rang. The caller ID said it was Henrique. He answered, wondering why their friend should feel the need to call. When the older man explained, he was both relieved – that there was no problem with the boys – and intrigued. He could still remember very little of his journey through the Amazon but his clearest memory of that period of time was that of a face and a voice. Could that be this Chi'ipa? Sherlock closed down the call and turned to Molly, who had been listening, with interest, to his side of the conversation and whose expression mirrored how he felt.

'I think I'm about to meet another ghost from my past,' he said, and sat back in the leather upholstery, tapping his chin, distractedly, with his phone.

When the car pulled up outside the colonial house, Giorgio was there to meet them and directed them through to the Afternoon Sitting Room and out onto the patio. As soon as Sherlock stepped out through the French doors, all the Indians got to their feet and one man came forward to meet him. They recognised one another, immediately.

'English, my memory didn't deceive me. You really are as tall as a tree,' Chi'ipa exclaimed and reached out to take Sherlock's big, smooth hand in his own small, calloused one. The Indian barely came to Englishman's breast bone but he gazed down at the diminutive figure with a degree of respect that he rarely gave to any other person. This man had guided him through the Amazon Jungle, on a two-week long trek, for which he was ill-prepared and completely unequipped, but had kept him safe and delivered him back into civilization, then disappeared like a ghost in the night.

'It is good to see you again,' Sherlock said, as he shook the man's hand, fervently.

'And you, too, though my reason for needing to see you is not a good thing,' Chi'ipa replied.

Sherlock gestured for them all to sit down again and he joined them, sitting cross legged on the ground. William came and sat in his lap. Caro, Henrique and Molly sat around the patio table, witnesses to the discussion and Freddie wandered about, ingratiating himself with the various members of the visiting group, as he saw fit.

The Englishman opened the conversation.

'Please, tell me what this bad thing is and if I can help you with it, I certainly will.'

Chi'ipa began to tell his story.

His people lived on the banks of a great river, a tributary of the mighty Amazon itself. They lived as they had for centuries, hunting in the forest, fishing in the river, trading with the New Brazilians but obtaining most of what they needed from the land – their land. But, recently, the Brazilian government had decided that their river would be the perfect site for a hydroelectric dam, to provide much needed electricity for the civilized parts of Brazil, the towns and the cities.

Chi'ipa's people had no need of electricity. They had survived without it for centuries, they could survive without it for centuries more but their rights to their tribal lands were being over-ridden in the name of progress. They had started a campaign to regain control of their own lands but, in the meantime, the power company had started to clear the jungle in preparation for building the dam, displacing the wild animals, destroying unique ecosystems and rare indigenous species of plants and animals.

And as if that were not bad enough, now a mining company wanted to mine for gold on the tribal land. This gold would make a fortune for the mining company but the Indians would gain no benefit at all. All they would get was an enormous spoil heap – larger than the Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro – and a further disruption to their way of life. The blasting of the mine would go on day after day, month after month, year after year. All the animals would be frightened away.

This river was their super highway. It was their Route 66. But the power company wanted to block it, drain it dry and leave the indigenous people with no means of transport or communication. The jungle was their supermarket, their shopping mall, their factory floor but the mining company wanted to blow it up to get to the gold hidden underneath.

Chi'ipa went on to explain that, under the Brazilian Constitution of 1988, his people were granted exclusive rights to their lands, as Indigenous Territories, to pursue their traditional way of life, except in extreme circumstances of 'relevant public interest'. However, the National Indian Foundation lacked the resources to uphold these laws, so their lands were constantly under threat from logging, mining, cattle farming and, now, hydroelectric schemes.

And, as if that were not bad enough, Brazil's Congress was debating a bill to open up indigenous territories for mining, dams, army bases and other industrial projects. If the new bill became law, it would mean the end of their way of life – possibly the end of their people, since other tribes had been driven to extinction by similar encroachments on their land.

'The people who support this bill are very powerful,' Chi'ipa concluded. 'Some members of congress are believed to be receiving money from mining and other companies. We are desperate, English. We heard that you had returned to Brazil and that you were trying to help the Indians and the Street Children. So, we came to find you and to ask you for your help.'

Sherlock had listened to the man's story with a burgeoning sense of outrage and despair. He had no idea what he could do, how he could possibly go up against the Brazilian Congress and even hope to be achieve anything useful but he was not about to give up without trying. He turned to Henrique, with a look of grim determination.

'Where do we start?' he asked.

'We start with the law,' Henrique replied.

ooOoo


	46. Loose Ends Chapter 45

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Five**

'This is so not my area,' Sherlock declared, scrubbing at his scalp with his fingertips, but carefully avoiding the two still-sensitive spots, from his most recent misadventure. He had been scouring the Internet for hours, bookmarking every reference he could find to the plight of the Amazonian Indians, but most particularly items referring to the hydroelectric and mining plans for Chi'ipa's particular river. The more he read, the more frustrated he felt. This was a humanitarian disaster going on, right under everyone's noses, yet hardly anyone seemed to be trying to do anything about it.

The complicated legal issues he found mind-numbingly convoluted. The phrase 'relevant public interest' was like a 'get out of gaol' card, a catch-all clause with which to rubberstamp any action that promised a lucrative return for the already rich and powerful. He knew he was completely out of his depth with this but, after what Chi'ipa and his people had done for him and the lengths they had gone to – trekking for miles and miles through the forest to find him and ask for his help – he could not betray the trust they had placed in him.

That old chestnut, 'caring', was rearing its ugly head again. Once that bug bit you, you were permanently infected. There was no cure. You just had to learn to live with the consequences.

Henrique, fortunately, with his background in the legal profession, was more than able to explain the finer points of law to him and he knew people, in the business, who would be able to offer advice, make recommendations and devise stratagems.

'What is needed here, Sherlock, is a team approach,' he suggested. 'We need to put together the best team possible of experts in the various fields implicated here. So that includes constitutional law, land ownership, international laws of human rights, the law on monopolies, and international trading laws. All these different aspects have a bearing on this case. But, what you bring to the table is your analytical, deductive reasoning. You can assimilate all these facts and plot a route through them. You will be able to view the problem from every possible angle and, therefore, see things that someone looking from only one perspective would not see. That is your area.'

Henrique clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an avuncular smile.

'You do your 'thing', Sherlock, and let the experts do theirs. Together, we can make a difference.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded his agreement. Very few people in his life had ever spoken to him in this way – in a fatherly way, not over-bearing, but encouraging. It felt very strange but also rather pleasant. It rather reminded him of Greg Lestrade, in the early days, when they first met, and a little bit of John Watson, on certain issues. And it also reminded him of Rocky, his friend of just five days, who had been the reason for him coming back here, after all. It made him realise that, although he might have missed out on being properly parented when he was a child, he had certainly been blessed with a rich supply of father figures in his adult life.

ooOoo

He and Molly had decided that the next morning would be the right time for the family to return to the hotel. They would take the boys back, and make sure they felt safe and secure, spend a family day by the pool and have that long delayed trip to the ice cream parlour.

But then Sherlock would need to focus his attention on reading and absorbing all the information he had bookmarked and trying to find a viable strategy to put before the legal team that Henrique was putting together.

'I'm sorry, Molly, I'm going to be a bit preoccupied for the last few weeks of our holiday,' he remarked, ruefully, when they were alone, having put the boys to bed at Caro's home for the last time.

'That's OK,' she replied, ruffling his hair, affectionately. 'I'm going to be pretty busy myself.'

He looked at her, with a wrinkled brow.

'While you and Henrique were discussing legal strategy, Caro had a proposition to put to me. She's been in touch with the charity that produces the birthing kits and has volunteered the Centre as a distribution point. What she has in mind is that, rather than simply handing out the kits in public places and hoping the women use them, when the time comes, that we run an education programme on the importance of hygiene during the birthing process.

Caro has suggested that we actually teach the girls and women, not only how to use the kits but also how to recognise the onset of some of the most common birthing complications, and how to respond to these symptoms and, hopefully, help prevent deaths in childbirth – both of the mothers and the babies. She's asked me if I would devise an education programme and deliver some classes, while I'm still here. I've said I would.'

Sherlock gave a very wry smile.

'Caro certainly knows how to maximise her use of resources,' he remarked.

Molly looked offended.

'Don't you think I'm up to the task?' she challenged.

He immediately held up a placatory hand then put his arms around her and placed an admiring kiss on each cheek.

'I cannot think of a better person to do it,' he declared, with utter sincerity. 'The women will listen to you. Maria has told them all how you delivered her baby. She is the best possible marketing asset – a satisfied customer.'

'Well, we'll see how it goes. If I can give them an idea of what to look out for and what to avoid, without scaring them half to death, then I will feel I've done my job well. And the boys can spend the time at the centre, doing whatever appeals to them, while I'm doing the talks. I've said I'll put myself at the Centre's disposal for the mornings and that still leaves the afternoons to do family stuff.'

That seemed like a satisfactory arrangement all round. William would be able to spend time with Rodrigo and the other boys and work on his Portuguese, which was already pretty fluent. Freddie would be able to schmooze his way around all the young girls at the Centre and increase his posse of adoring fans still further – as well as learning a little Portuguese along the way. It was a complete win-win situation.

ooOoo

Molly packed the demonstration Birthing Kit back into its zip lock bag and placed it in the box, along with the other props that she had been using to give her talks on safer childbirth. Today had been her very last one.

All things considered, they had been very successful. The women and girls who had attended – some already pregnant, some not yet pregnant nor thinking of becoming so any time soon and some past the age of becoming pregnant but often called upon to act as midwives – had all listened and watched with rapt attention as she talked about good hygiene practices, explained how to employ the components of the birthing kits and what to do if things did not go according to plan.

Courtesy of the Children's Centre – that was fast becoming a Community Centre – each neighbourhood had been given an emergency prepaid mobile phone, which could be recharged and 'topped up' at the Centre, as and when necessary, to use to call the doctor who worked with the Rocky Foundation. If he wasn't able to attend a birthing emergency himself, he had a number of colleagues who were willing to stand in and help out.

This final session had been especially poignant for Molly, as Maria had turned up, quite unexpectedly, and brought Baby Molly, who was now five weeks old and a picture of health and vitality. She had heard it was Molly's 'last day' and she had, unbeknown to Molly herself, organised a little 'thank you' presentation.

This consisted of a little 'birthing' drama, put on by the younger girls, which, though rather slap-stick and hilariously funny, demonstrated that they had taken on board all the advice Molly had been able to give. There was also the prsentation of some handmade gifts for Molly, the boys and even one for Sherlock. This was a carved wooden spoon with the image of a dragon engraved on the back of the bowl, using a hot metal stylus, to commemorate his encounter with The Dragon Aunt.

Molly had been feeling quite weepy all morning so it hadn't taken much to tip her over the edge, but the little drama did the trick and she had to reassure all the young thespians that these were happy tears. Being hormonal had contributed quite considerably to her emotional fragility and this had not gone unnoticed by the wiley older members of the ladies' group. So Molly had been doubly surprised to be presented with a beautifully embroidered christening bonnet.

'Para o novo bebê,' Maria had said, when she pressed it into Molly's hand. That had precipitated even more tears and prompted William to explain to all present,

'Oh, don't worry. That's just a Mummy Moment,' which had pretty much brought the house down, to his great consternation, since he was not accustomed to being laughed at, or kissed and hugged by so many females at the same time.

Molly carried the box of teaching props into the rear office, where it was to be kept for the new person – a local retired nurse – who was going to carry on the good work, using Molly's syllabus as a template. Raoul was there, at his desk as usual, beavering away at the financial records, making sure every penny of donated money was accounted for. He looked up and smiled.

'We will be seeing you again, before you go home, won't we, senhora?' he asked.

'Oh, yes,' Molly replied. 'At Baby Molly's christening, for one,' she added. 'I take it you are coming to that?'

'Yes, indeed. Both my wife and I have been invited. We would not want to miss it.'

Maria's baby was to be christened at the local church in two days' time. Molly and Sherlock had been asked to be Godparents. Sherlock had been a little reluctant, to begin with.

'Surely, in order to be a Godparent one has to have a belief in said deity?' he questioned.

'One only needs to have the best interests of the child at heart,' Molly explained, pragmatically. 'And it would be rude to refuse. Ru'e and Maria would be hurt.'

'What, hurt that I had not doomed their child to Eternal Damnation for agreeing to do something I didn't actually believe in?'

'Well, if you don't believe in God, you can't believe in Eternal Damnation either, so the risk is non-existent.'

Even Sherlock could not argue with the logic of that statement, so he had agreed to accept the honour.

He would be back from Sao Paulo later today, having been there for the best part of a week, meeting with the team of lawyers Henrique had put together to represent Chi'ipa's people. He and Henrique had both given practically every waking moment, for the past three weeks, to that particular cause, leaving Caro, Molly and the boys to entertain themselves. But neither Molly nor Caro minded.

Molly had been delighted to see the 'thrill of the chase' look return to Sherlock's eyes, but in an environment that presented no prospect of physical danger greater than the consequences of lack of sleep. As ever, when the game was 'on', sleep was an alien concept. Henrique got a taste of what John Watson had become accustomed to – the Energiser Bunny Sherlock, who just kept running and running, until he suddenly keeled over in a power nap, then awoke and picked up exactly where he had left off.

Caro was secretly pleased to see her husband so enthused about something. Since he had retired, he seemed to have become a mere shadow of his true self – the energetic, dynamic man she had knew and loved. Now he was committed to this cause, the years had dropped away and he seemed more like her Henrique. She knew this would be his life's work now, something he could get his teeth into, even after Sherlock and Molly returned to their lives on the other side of the world.

Molly said goodbye to Raoul, called to William and Freddie and left the centre, climbing into Caro's car for the return trip to the hotel. She and the boys would have lunch then spend the afternoon around the pool, waiting for Sherlock to get back. Their time in Brazil was coming to an end. So much had happened – both good and bad – but it had certainly been a holiday of a lifetime for the family and one that she, for one, would never forget.

ooOoo

She was sitting on the edge of the paddling pool when she heard William shriek, 'Daddy!' and she looked up to see Sherlock, dressed in his linen suit, Ray-Ban wrap-arounds and fedora, striding round the edge the pool, stooping to scoop up William, who had scrambled from the trainer pool and was now hoisted into the air, dripping water from his hair and swimming shorts.

Molly's heart seemed to swell inside her chest. It was incredible how just the sight of him could do that to her, even after all the time they had been together. She would never out-grow that girlish feeling of infatuation that she had experienced the very first time she set eyes on him.

Looking round the pool, she could see so many pairs of eyes tracking him in his progress. She noted how all the men sucked in their guts, straightened their shoulders and puffed out their chests, like pouter pigeons; how all the women struck a pose, turning their heads, to present their best profile, broke out the dazzling smiles.

There was a time, not so long ago, that she would have felt intimidated by these bathing beauties, with their flawless figures and sculpted features, but not any more. Sherlock had proven time and time again that he was not impressed by their fake tans and botoxed brows. He only ever had eyes for his diminutive pathologist, as indeed was now the case.

As she scooped up Freddie, out of the water, and stepped onto the side of the pool, he caught sight of her and his face softened. Even though she could not see his eyes, through the mirrored sun glasses that he wore, she knew that his pupils would be expanding.

'Look, Freddie, Daddy's back,' she said, pointing him out to the younger Hooper-Holmes boy, before placing him onto the tiled surface, to run to his father. She smiled at the look of joy on Sherlock's face, as he picked up the wriggling toddler and blew a loud raspberry on his are belly, causing the child to wriggle and giggle even more.

And now he was advancing on her, with one child on his arm and the other on his back, pulling her into his free arm and pressing his mouth to hers, making her head swim. Could it be possible to love someone as much as she loved him? Well, clearly, it was. She was the living proof. But to then have that love returned in equal measure? That surely was in the realms of fantasy? Apparently not.

'Hmmm, so good to be back,' he said, smiling down at her, confirming with the sincerity of that smile that he meant every single syllable. 'Everything alright?'

'Good to have you back, and, yes, everything is fine. The boys really love it here. They are going to miss the pool,' she replied, slipping her arm round his waist and feeling his body respond to her touch, in a silent promise of things to come, later, when the boys were in bed.

'And what about you? Will you miss anything?' he asked, knowing that she would miss Caro and Henrique and everyone at the Centre, whom she had grown to love and who loved her back.

'It's lovely here but I'm looking forward to getting home,' she replied, placing her free hand on her stomach – still flat despite the new life, growing there, that was already making its presence felt through chemical communication, via her pituitary gland .

His expression changed to one of concern.

'Everything's OK, isn't it?'

He was just as concerned for the well-being of this new baby as she was – possibly more, since he was not as closely in touch with the little person-to-be. She smiled back, reassuringly.

'Everything is absolutely OK. Better than OK!'

'No sickness?' he asked, giving her a penetrating look which brooked no denial of the full facts.

'Not so far, touch wood.'

That was good to hear. Her previous pregnancies had been blighted by pretty severe emesis gravidarum, which had manifested itself at around this point in the proceedings and persisted through to the end of the second trimester.

'I know it's early days but it feels _different_ this time,' she posited.

'Different how?' he asked, slightly concerned that wishful thinking was gaining a foothold in her otherwise sound, scientist's mind.

'I can't explain, just _different_,' she replied, a little lamely.

She knew she was tempting fate, here, but she could do nothing about it. In her heart, she was convinced this baby was a girl. She cautioned herself not to invest too heavily in old wives' tales, myths and apocryphal tales. Whatever the gender of this baby, it would be welcomed into the world and into the family, and it would be loved and cherished.

'How were the talks?' she asked, deflecting any further enquiries about her own wellbeing.

He shook his head and gave a small shrug.

'Tedious, boring, frustrating and infuriating, but I think we've put together a good case. Time will tell.'

'Daddy, do you remember what you promised before you went away?' William chimed in.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and gazed up to the heavens, feigning ignorance, but William was not taken in.

'You do remember, I know you do,' William insisted, 'and Freddie knows you do, too, don't you, Freddie?'

'Eye-keem,' declared Freddie, emphatically.

'See, Freddie knows,' the older child confirmed, with a satisfied grin.

'Oh, that promise!' Daddy Holmes suddenly remembered. He removed his arm from Molly's waist and looked at his watch.

'Oh, what a shame! The ice cream parlour is closed!' he replied, shaking his head, sadly.

'Noooooo!' squealed William, 'you know it isn't closed. You're a naughty daddy!'

'Notty dada!' agreed Freddie.

Out-numbered and out-thought, Sherlock had to concede defeat.

'Oh, OK, you win. I suppose we better get you lot dried and dressed and get along there. I hear there's been a rush on ice cream. They might even have sold out.'

'Noooooooo!' squealed William and Freddie in unison, as Sherlock turned and carried his two boys back toward the hotel foyer, as Molly collected their belongings from the sun lounger and followed on behind, smiling happily to herself.

ooOoo


	47. Loose Ends Chapter 46

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Six**

Their last day in Rio was bittersweet. The Hooper-Holmes family spent the morning relaxing round the pool, making the most of the sunshine and the water. Freddie was completely independent in the trainer pool, now, able to keep his face out of the water and doggy-paddle around or duck dive under the surface and scull about, like a baby seal. When he needed to rest, he just rolled onto his back and floated around, like a little otter.

William greatly appreciated the calming effect the aquatic environment had on his little brother and the fact that some of the tranquillity seemed to have leeched into his terrestrial persona. He could sometimes be quiet and thoughtful on dry land, too. For his own part, the older boy was now so fluent in Portuguese, he could switch from one language to the other without the slightest hesitation. He even thought in Portuguese, now. Molly was deeply impressed.

She had picked up a good smattering of the language, especially through working with the women at the Centre, but she lacked confidence and would lapse into English at the first opportunity. She had decided to work on it, though, when she got home to the UK, to take some private lessons and practice with William, and Sherlock, too – although she wasn't sure how patient a teacher he might be.

At lunch time, they went back to the suite, showered and changed into their smarter clothes, to attend the christening, then made sure everything else was packed into their luggage – everything except the boys summer clothes, which Molly had promised to Maria and the Centre. They would go with them, to the church, and be handed over at the party to be held afterwards, at the home of Ru'e and Maria. The rest of their luggage would go straight to the airport, where they, too would go, when they left the festivities. Their flight departed at ten pm.

Now the day had come to leave, Molly had very mixed feelings. She was looking forward to returning to their flat, though that would not be their home for much longer. They had put off moving to a large accommodation, after Freddie was born, but a third child was definitely one too many for their current home. They had already discussed what they intended to do.

The house, a few doors down, that Mycroft had bought and tried to give to them, was currently let to a doctor and his family, on a six month lease, which had two months left to run. That lease would not be renewed. The tenants would move out, she and Sherlock would buy the house from his brother, have it refurbished and then move in. Their flat, which actually belonged to her, would be let, as in deed her old flat was – the one she had bought on a shared ownership scheme, when she first moved to London. That seemed like a thousand years ago.

'Ready to go?' Sherlock asked, breaking into her reverie.

'Yes. Just checking that we haven't left anything behind,' she replied, with a sad smile.

'Well, if we have, I'm sure they'll send it to us,' he assured her.

The land line rang and he answered it.

'The car is here,' he announced.

At the same moment, the chimes of the door sounded and he opened it to admit two bell boys, who had come to take their luggage downstairs. Sherlock picked up Freddie and Molly took William's hand. With a wistful backward glance, she followed the tall detective out to the lift; they went down to the foyer and over to reception.

'Sr Holmes, Senhora Hooper, we are sorry to see you leave. We have so enjoyed having your company and that of your delightful children,' the Duty Manager gushed.

'Thank you,' replied Sherlock, somewhat dismissively. He was no fan of polite formalities. He took out his cheque book.

'Oh, Sr Holmes, I think we agreed that you would stay free of charge, for the last three weeks, due to the unfortunate circumstances that occurred, earlier in your stay!'

'I believe that was the suggestion, yes,' he replied, 'but I have an alternative idea. I will pay for our accommodation but you will donate the full amount to the Rocky Foundation. The hotel will become a patron of the Children's Centre and Senhora Carolina Lyons de Sousa will be able to call upon you, from time to time, to play host to the occasional fund raiser.' He signed the cheque, with a flourish and turned a searchlight smile on the hapless Duty Manager, who simply nodded, accepted the cheque and swallowed, hard.

'A small price to pay for our discretion, don't you think?' Sherlock concluded, tipped his hat and walked away, toward the front exit. As they settled themselves in the back of Caro's car, which she had sent to collect them and then deliver their luggage to the baggage check in, at the airport, Molly gave him a playful slap on the wrist.

'You can still be really snarky, when it suits you, can't you! I'd almost forgotten you could do that,' she admonished.

'A leopard doesn't change its spots, it just learns to camouflage them,' he replied, smugly.

ooOoo

When they reached the church, they found it all decked out in colourful bunting, with the christening guests arriving, dressed in their Sunday best. This was going to be a joyous occasion. Ru'e and Maria stood at the church door, Maria holding Baby Molly, sound asleep, in her arms, as they welcomed their guests. When the Hooper-Holmes family approached, they were greeted with huge smiles, warm hugs and a surprise.

'Holmes, and Molly,' began Ru'e, indicating an elderly couple standing nearby. 'These are Maria's Uncle and Aunt. They have been sent, by her family, to attend Molly's christening.'

The Hooper-Holmes couple greeted Maria's relatives, respectfully, and moved into the cool interior of the church, where they were directed to sit on the front row of wooden pews, listening to the organ music, as they waited for all the guests, including the Centre staff, Caro and Henrique and many of the children who attended the Centre, to arrive and for the service to begin.

Once proceedings got underway, the pomp and circumstance of the service passed relatively smoothly. Sherlock, to his credit, barely batted an eyelid when asked to make the Godparent's vow.

'You have come here to present this child for baptism... you must make it your constant care to bring her up in the practice of the faith ... See that the divine life is kept safe from the poison of sin, to grow always stronger,' the priest intoned'

And, when asked,

"If your faith makes you ready to accept this responsibility, renew the vows of your own baptism. Reject sin, profess your faith in Christ Jesus. This is the faith of the Church. This is the faith in which this child is about to be baptised,"

he made the appropriate response,

'I do,' and Molly breathed a sigh of relief. His answers to the series of questions that followed were somewhat muted and quite drowned out by the fervent declarations of Ru'e and Maria, as indeed where those of Molly but she answered in the affirmative. As they returned to their seats, he muttered, for her ears only,

'That's us condemned to the darkest recesses of Hell,' which she ignored.

When the service was concluded, everyone filed out of the church, into the bright sunshine, and made the short walk into the favela and to the home of the happy parents. The whole neighborhood appeared to have attended the ceremony and everyone, including the priest, had come back for the party, too. The small combo of guitarists and brass players, who had provided the loud and raucous sound track to Sherlock's welcome reception at the centre, were in attendance again – equally loud and raucous. William gave them a leery look and endeavored to keep as far away from them as possible, teaming up with Rodrigo, to play Jacks for one last time.

As everyone began to mingle and chatter, Ru'e came over to address Sherlock.

'I have another piece of news, Holmes,' he said. 'Maria's family wants us to go back to Sao Paulo. They say we could live with Maria's grandmother, in her home, and her uncle – this uncle, here, - he has a business that he would like me to help him with. He owns a motor repair workshop and he has an apprenticeship that he wants to offer to me. I could become a qualified mechanic.'

Sherlock looked down at his small friend and breaking into a broad smile, took Ru'e's hand and pumped it, enthusiastically.

'That is excellent news, my friend!' he exclaimed. 'But what will happen to your home here?'

'It will pass to the next in line. That would be Guillermo.' Ru'e pointed to a young man, standing near the doorway to the hut, chatting and laughing, animatedly. 'He's a good man. He will be a good father to the family.'

'So when will you go?' Sherlock asked.

'In a few days. There's not much to wrap up, here. I will let the owner of the garage, where I work, know that I am leaving so he can find someone to replace me. We have few possessions so there is not a lot to pack,' he quipped.

'You have a few more, now. Molly as given Maria all of Freddie's summer clothes. By next summer, he will be too big for them, and we don't have such good summers in England as you do here. Yours last nearly all year round. Ours last about a week, usually.'

'But you will come back to Brazil, won't you, Holmes?' Ru'e asked. 'And when you do, you will come and look us up in Sao Paulo?'

Sherlock clasped the other man's shoulder.

'We most certainly will come back and, be assured, we would not return without coming to see you and Maria – not to mention your only begotten child, our goddaughter. After all, we just made a promise to God! And,' he added, 'I still owe you a meal. We never did go out to dinner.'

As the sun began to set and the light grew dim, the party looked in no way as though it was coming to a close but it was time for the Hooper-Holmes to leave for the airport. Their plane would not wait. The leave-taking was a tearful affair. Even Freddie cried – but only because nearly everyone else was crying. Even Sherlock looked a little shiny around the eyes. They finally managed to tear themselves away and, along with Caro and Henrique, they walked back through the favela to find the waiting car.

The journey to the airport was a quiet one. Molly and William gazed out of the windows at the lights of Rio. Sherlock looked straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts. Freddie was fast asleep. On arrival at Departures, they were shown to the private lounge from which Mycroft had left, and served with coffee and tea, as they waited for their flight to be called. When it was, there were more tears, as Caro hugged each of the family in turn and Henrique shook Sherlock's hand and kissed Molly and the boys on the cheek.

'Safe journey,' Henrique said. 'And I will be in touch, with regard to the legal action.'

The family passed down the retractable boarding bridge and were shown to their seats, by the flight attendant. They had a complete row of seven seats, again, for the return journey. As soon as they had taken off and the seatbelt sign was turned off, they would be able to change the boys into their onesies and settle then down to sleep. It was well past their bedtime so that would not be difficult. But, for now, they occupied the window seats, so they could take one last look at Rio – their home for the previous two months and the setting for so many mad adventures and astounding revelations.

As the plane took off and banked away, over the Atlantic Ocean, their final view was of the statue, Cristo Redentor, brightly illuminated against the black backdrop of the Tijuca National Park, looking strangely ethereal, as it hovered, protectively, over the city, far below.

ooOoo


	48. Loose Ends Chapter 47

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Seven**

November was a cold, grey month at the best of times but, after a summer spent in South America, it seemed doubly so. The Hooper-Holmes family had been back for two months and life had returned to normal – or rather, what passed for normal, in their household.

Molly was back at work, following her two month sabbatical, and due to her 'condition', she was on office duties only – with the occasional bit of evidence testing, provided the samples were non-organic. William was back at school, perplexing his teachers with his tendency to lapse into Portuguese, from time to time, without even realising he was doing it. Freddie was back at the crèche, chatting away in a curious mixture of English and Portuguese, which the nursery staff found quite endearing.

Sherlock was working again, too, with a healthy book of private clients, as well as the occasional consultation by DI Lestrade, at the Met. Even this long after The Fall, Lestrade was still the only Met inspector who would make use of Sherlock's renowned talents. Other police forces were less cautious, so he was often required to work away from home. However, since his solution rate was rather rapid, he was rarely away for longer than a couple of days.

This was one of those occasions. As Molly put in the key code to open the front door to their building, and pushed the door wide open, so she could manoeuvre Freddie's buggy into the entrance hall, she wondered if he would be back yet. He had texted her, earlier in the day, from Birmingham, to say the case was solved and he would be catching a train to Euston, mid-afternoon. If he wasn't home now, he soon would be.

Molly used her Yale key to open the flat door and called,

'Mummy's home!' as she lifted Freddie from the buggy and removed his coat and shoes. William ran through from the sitting room to give her a hug and give Freddie a 'high five', which had become their greeting of choice, of late.

'Is Daddy back, babe?' she asked, as she stowed the buggy in the under stairs cupboard and removed her own coat and shoes.

'Not yet, Mummy,' William replied, returning to his spot on the sofa, to continue watching his wild life programme.

'Hi, Marie,' Molly greeted the nanny, who was in the kitchen, temporarily interrupted, in her preparation of the vegetables for the family's supper, by Freddie who had thrown his arms round her legs in a 'hello' hug.

'Anything to report?' she asked.

'Oh, just the usual,' Marie replied. 'The class teacher feels that William's language development will be severely impeded if he continues to confuse English with Portuguese.'

'Well, if it slows him down a bit, it might give the other children a chance to catch up,' Molly replied. She was getting a bit fed up with the class teacher and her somewhat narrow view on life. She wondered whether they should consider moving William to another school, one that had a more child-centric outlook, perhaps a school for gifted children, where he would not always be the first one to get the answer. It would be better for him, if he were challenged a little more. Perhaps then his mind would not wander back to Brazil – which Molly believed was the reason why he suddenly broke into Portuguese, at odd moments.

'Ah, thank you, Marie,' Molly sighed, as she picked up the cup of mint tea that the nanny had placed on the kitchen table, in front of her.

'I've been looking forward to this, all the way home,' she confessed, having taken a long, slow sip. She was three and a half months gone, in her third pregnancy, and, so far, completely nausea free. She could drink tea, as long as it was fairly weak or herbal, as this cup was. She could tolerate the smell of food cooking, without turning green. The smell of bodily fluids did not send her running to the bathroom. She was absolutely convinced, now, that this baby was a girl.

'It must be the 'y' chromosome that makes me nauseous,' she had suggested to Sherlock, when the emesis gravidarum failed to materialise.

'Is there any research to back up that hypothesis?' he had asked.

'None that I've seen,' she replied, defensively, 'but that doesn't mean it's not possible.'

'Did I say it wasn't possible?' he had enquired, soothingly.

'No, but you thought it,' she huffed.

'I love you when you're hormonal,' he replied, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek.

'Sorry, am I getting confrontational again?' she apologised.

'You could say that but you are forgiven. Actually, I was thinking it could be a good area for you to research.'

'Earth to Molly,' Marie's voice broke in to her stream of consciousness.

'Oh, sorry, Marie, I was miles away. It's been a long week, especially these last few days, with Sherlock away. Thank goodness it's Friday.' Molly looked at her watch. 'You should be getting off,' she observed. 'Going anywhere nice, with that lovely man of yours?'

During the summer, while the family were way, Marie had gone on holiday with a group of friends and returned with a new boyfriend, who was still on the scene.

'We have tickets for the new National Theatre production, at the Olivier. It's that actor you like, the one who looks like Sherlock,' Marie replied with a conspiratorial wink.

'Oh, do me a favour, will you? If you get the chance, get me his autograph, please?' said Molly, giggling. 'It will really annoy His Nibs. He's always telling me off for having a schoolgirl crush. I know it makes him jealous but he won't admit it. He just huffs and goes off, muttering about narcissistic Nancy boys.'

Both women howled with laughter, then stopped abruptly, when they heard the front door open and a familiar voice shout, 'Hello, anybody home?'

'Oh, speak of the devil,' Molly guffawed and they both burst out laughing again.

Freddie, who had been sitting at the table with a glass of milk, scrambled down and scuttled through to the sitting room, to greet his father, so Molly and Marie followed him out. As they entered the other room, Sherlock appeared from the hallway, carrying William who had already run to meet him at the door, and was instantly set upon by Freddie.

'Hello, darling,' Molly said, standing on tip toe to give him a peck on the cheek. 'How was the case?'

'Oh, only a Six, in the end. Hardly worth my time. Hello, Marie,' he smiled at the nanny.

'Hi and bye,' Marie replied. 'Sorry, must dash. I'm off out tonight.'

'Have a lovely weekend, Marie,' Molly called after her. 'And don't forget that little favour.'

'I won't forget,' Marie replied, as she donned her hat, coat and scarf, picked up her bag, waved to the boys and left the flat.

'What are you two plotting?' Sherlock asked, as he gave Molly a one armed hug and a kiss on the mouth.

'Oh, nothing to bother your pretty little head, my dear,' Molly replied, with a secretive grin.

'Oh, I expect I'll find out soon enough,' he concluded, as he plonked William back onto the sofa, to finish watching his TV show, and carried Freddie into the kitchen, putting him back on his chair, to finish his milk.

'Any tea in the pot?' he asked, hopefully.

'No but switch the kettle on and I'll make you some,' she replied.

'No, that's OK, you sit down, I'll do it. Tell me about your week.'

'Nothing much to tell, really. All pretty routine, nowadays. There was a bit of a kerfuffle, a couple of days ago, when the hospital thought one of the in-patients had the Ebola virus but it turned out to be a false alarm.'

'Thank goodness for that,' he replied, raising his eyebrows.

'Yes. If it had been a genuine case, the whole hospital would have been quarantined. That would have put the kybosh on our weekend in Hertfordshire'

What? Is that this weekend?' he asked, looking peeved.

'Yes, Guy Fawkes Night, remember? We're all invited to the fireworks display on the estate? Mycroft's hired someone in to do it, some proper pyrotchnicians.'

'Oh, yes, I remember,' he replied, with ire. 'I suppose we have to go, do we?'

'Yes, we do. Don't be such a killjoy. The boys have been looking forward to it for weeks. I've even bought them ear defenders, specially.'

'Ok, I know when I'm beaten,' he conceded, and poured the boiling water from the kettle over the teabags in the tea pot.

'Just as well. Mycroft's sending his car tomorrow morning. We would have just gone without you,' she declared.

'Did you get me some ear defenders, too,' he asked.

'No, I did not. You'll probably spend the evening in the library, any way.'

'Ah, you know me too well, Dr Hooper,' he grinned, and raised his tea cup in a silent toast.

ooOoo

When the car drew up outside the front of the family home in Hertfordshire, Mycroft, Arthur and the two children were there to meet their guests. Andrew came out to help the chauffeur with their bags, whilst greetings were exchanged between the two branches of the Holmes family.

'How was the Black Country?' Mycroft enquired, regarding Sherlock's recent trip to the West Midlands.'

'Not so black, any more,' the detective replied.

'That's good to know. And one less miscreant on the streets, thanks to you, one supposes?' the older Holmes concluded.

'A seasoned recidivist, if ever there were one,' the younger man replied. 'He won't be enjoying the pleasures of his ill-gotten gains for some time to come, one hopes, if in deed at all.'

'Shall we go in?' Mycroft invited and they all trouped inside.

'You are in your usual rooms,' he explained, as he led the way into the drawing room, where tea would be served, as soon as Andrew had finished with the bags.

'Do sit down,' their host invited. 'Molly, dear, you are looking well. This pregnancy seems to suit you.'

Molly acknowledged Mycroft's comments with a smile and turned her attention back to Katy and Charlie, who were competing with one another to tell her all their recent news. Arthur sat down on the sofa, next to her and proceeded to referee the twins.

'Steady on, you pair. Auntie Molly can't hear what you're saying if you both talk at once. You need to take turns. Ok, Katy, since you are the oldest, by three minutes, you can go first.'

At this, Charlie pulled a face.

'Noooo!' he whined. 'Me furt!'

'You first, next time, Charlie,' Arthur insisted, picking the little chap up for a cuddle, to compensate him for his lack of seniority.

Katy proceeded to gabble on for about a minute, whilst Molly listened hard, trying to decipher what she had to say. In the end, she turned to Arthur and said,

'Could I have a translation, please?'

'Edited highlights - Katy and Charlie have started to go to the play group in the village hall. Katy made a collage picture of a bonfire and Charlie wet his pants.'

'Ah, poor Charlie!' Molly exclaimed, trying hard not to smile.

'Well, when you're so engrossed in the Lego, you don't always notice that you need the toilet. It's a common occurrence with Charlie. He doesn't seem to mind, though, do you, mate?'

'Noo,' admitted Charlie, shaking his head and giving a cheeky grin.

'Good man,' Arthur grinned, patting the child on the shoulder.

Sherlock was deep in discussion with Mycroft, he bringing his brother up to speed on the campaign to stop the hydroelectric scheme and the gold mining, on Chi'ipa's tribal land, and Big Brother filling him in on some of the diplomatic efforts being made on behalf of the indigenous people. William had parked himself in Mycroft's lap and was listening with rapt attention to the adults' conversation. Freddie, on the other hand, having scrambled into Sherlock's lap, proceeded to contribute to said conversation, with a few considered remarks of his own and much sage head nodding. The arrival of the tea tray was a timely intervention.

ooOoo

When the three toddlers went down for their after-lunch nap, Mycroft took William out into the grounds, to watch the pyrotechnicians setting up the fireworks display. They had erected a scaffold and were in the process of laying in the wiring which would act as fuses for the computerised display. Mycroft asked the team leader to explain to William how the system worked and the man obliged. The young boy was quite enthralled by the whole process and was particularly keen to know how the display was programmed into the computer.

Mycroft took a back seat and let the man explain how it all worked, admiring the insightful questions that William asked. His mind wandered to the request Sherlock had made, after lunch, when they were briefly alone, as Molly and Arthur were upstairs, putting the smaller children to bed for their naps. He was quite taken aback, initially, but having had time to think about it since, it wasn't that surprising.

After their parents' sudden and tragic demise, even when Sherlock had recovered from the shock, he had not wanted to take possession of any of their parents' personal belongings, even those that had been specifically left to him, in their respective wills. But, since they had both learned the truth about their parents' relationship, Sherlock's attitude toward their mother had changed dramatically. So, it was natural that he would want to take ownership of his bequests. He should have been expecting it, really.

All their mother's personal items were stored in her former dressing room, apart from her jewellery, which were kept in the safe in Mycroft's study. While he was out in the park, with William, Sherlock and Molly were going through these objects, including pieces of pottery, works of art, antique furniture and designer clothing. It gave him an odd feeling.

He had been the guardian of his family's heirlooms for so long, the thought of some of them perhaps leaving the family home – leaving his care – felt quite strange. He wondered what Sherlock would decide to do with his inheritance. Would he decide to sell stuff off? What if he did? Mycroft would have to negotiate that hurdle when he came to it. But it was about time Sherlock began to take his responsibilities for the family's legacy seriously. This was a positive development. It would just take a bit of getting used to.

ooOoo

ooOoo


	49. Loose Ends Chapter 48

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Eight**

Sherlock stood in the centre of his mother's dressing room for the first time in a very long time. He couldn't actually remember the last occasion on which he'd set foot in this room. This was his mother's sanctuary so he was rarely admitted. He recognised the furniture. He had seen it most recently in his Mind Palace, in the room he had constructed for her.

Her Art Nouveau bed, with the inlaid butterfly design, was dismantled, the head and foot boards leaning against a wall, the base propped up in front of them and the struts laid on the floor, along the skirting board. The matching dressing table and chest of drawers were placed back to back, next to the bed.

Sherlock crossed the room and opened one door of the three door wardrobe. Hanging inside, protected by dress, coat and suit bags, was a huge collection of designer clothing. There were evening dresses, ball gowns, cocktail dresses, business suits, tea dresses, skirts, blouses and sweaters; cashmere, wool, silk and fine cotton. And there were also boxes and boxes of shoes.

Seeing these clothes, even after so many years, evoked images of the events and occasions on which Violet had worn them. Sherlock could see her walking, dancing, chatting, parading. She had been quite a clothes horse, able to show any outfit to its best advantage.

Molly slipped her arm around his waist and he looked down at her.

'Good grief, Sherlock,' she marvelled. 'Just look at all this vintage clothing! Look at the labels! These must be worth a small fortune.'

'Would people want to buy them?' he asked. 'Would they want to wear them?'

'Are you kidding? Vintage is all the rage, these days. Actually, some of these might even be museum pieces. They're very exclusive, possibly even one-offs, designed especially for her. Before you do anything, you should get a clothing historian to come and catalogue the whole collection, maybe give you an idea of its value.'

'Give _us_ an idea, you mean,' he corrected her.

'Yes, of course, you and Mycroft,' she agreed.

'No, Molly, you and I,' he corrected, again.

Molly looked at him, quizzically.

'Mummy knew Mycroft would never bring a woman to this house. I think she knew he was gay even before he did. No, she left all these clothes to me – well, to you, actually. To my future partner, the person I chose to spend the rest of my life with.'

Molly mouth formed a small 'O'. She stood and stared at this textile treasure trove and could not formulate a single, coherent sentence.

'I'm amazed she imagined I would ever bring a woman here, actually,' he added.

'But you were hardly more than a teenager, when she died. Surely you hadn't already decided to be a monk?' Molly was rather appalled.

'Let's just say that finding true love and happiness wasn't exactly high on my list of priorities,' he replied. 'You are right, though. We should get them looked at by an expert,' he concluded and closed the door.

He wandered around the room, picking up and putting down pieces of Moorcroft, Clarice Cliff, Lalique and Limoges, Wedgwood and Delft. He looked through a collection of framed pictures, stacked against a chair and saw signatures and styles that he recognised; a couple of pieces by Ford Madox Brown, one of the Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood, that he was sure would not be prints; some Giacometti drawings, a Mark Chagall and a small David Hockney portrait. If the clothing collection was worth thousands, these works of art could potentially be worth a few millions.

'I want to look at her jewellery,' he said, turning to leave the room. Molly could not get out of the room fast enough. She knew Sherlock's family were wealthy but this much evidence of that fact was a little overwhelming.

'You do that, darling,' she told him. 'I've seen enough buried treasure for one day. I can't take any more, just at the moment.'

He drew her into a hug.

'Don't be intimidated by all this, Molly. These objects are beautiful and precious and rare but they are just 'things',' he said.

'Oh, but they aren't. They are a message,' she insisted. He looked at her, not understanding what she meant.

'Your mother knew you better than you ever imagined. She knew what to leave to you. She knew what you would appreciate and what you would value.'

'They're not all mine,' he replied.

'I'm sure they are. Mycroft will have his share spread about, on display around the house. It stands to reason that the things in that room are the things she left to you.'

He hadn't thought of that. Now he was the one who was speechless. He would need to check that with Mycroft.

Molly went to their room to rest, while Freddie was still napping, and Sherlock went to inspect his mother's jewellery. It didn't take him long. He already had a rough idea of what was there and, like Molly, he felt a little overwhelmed by all these exquisite objects, though for a rather different reason. For him, they represented parts of his mother that, until so recently, he didn't really know or care to understand.

He joined Molly in Nelson, their bedroom, after only about twenty minutes, and lay down on the bed, curling his body around hers and breathing in her scent, revelling in the sense of security and true belonging that her very essence represented to him.

ooOoo

Mycroft and William returned to the house just in time for Afternoon Tea, in the kitchen, where they were joined by the rest of the family. Mrs Orgreave, the cook, had laid out a veritable feast of toasted teacakes, sandwiches, fruit and plain scones and pots of tea. As the family gathered and took their places, there was a lively buzz of conversation,

The estate Guy Fawkes Night bonfire party was an annual event. It was the family's way of thanking all its tenant farmers, the foresters, the gamekeeper, the beaters and everyone else who worked on or for the estate – including the house staff and their families, and the people in the village – for their service to the estate the preceding year. This year had been a particularly good one.

The harvest had produced a record yield of wheat, barley, oil seed rape and potatoes, and the estate's share of the profits reflected that, so Mycroft had earmarked some of that profit to pay for the professional firework display. Everyone was invited and the locals had been gathering wood for weeks, and building the bonfire that would be lit by Mr Meadows, the estates manager, as soon as it was dark. This would be the beacon, the signal, to summon all the guests from the surrounding area.

There would be potatoes and sweet chestnuts, baked and roasted in the glowing embers, while the firework display was in progress. The game keeper, Mr Austin, and his team of men and boys from the village, who had other jobs all year round but earned a bit of extra cash, servicing the guns and beating for the shoots, had dismantled and rebuild the fire, just that morning, in order to evict any hedgehogs or other wild creatures who might have made a home in it, in the weeks leading up to this day. Roast hedgehog was not on the menu.

The local children had been busy making guys, for the annual competition. Mycroft usually judged this but, this year, he had delegated that responsibility to Arthur, on the grounds that he himself always seemed to make an unpopular choice – based too much on quality of construction and not enough on character. He also felt that Arthur would be much better at commiserating with the losers than he ever had been but, if that proved erroneous, then at least it wouldn't be Mycroft in the firing line. Regardless of who won or lost, all the guys would be burned on the fire – the winner being thrown on last.

William was very excited about the forthcoming display, having seen it being installed, but was a little apprehensive about the prospect of loud bangs that the pyrotechnician had promised. But he had test driven his ear defenders against the smoke alarm at home – which he loathed – and they had proven quite effective, so he was quietly confident that he would cope.

'Are you coming to watch the fireworks this year, Daddy?' he asked Sherlock.

'It's not the 'watching' that's the problem, Will. I fail to understand why the explosions have to be so loud. They never used to be, when I was your age. And Mummy didn't get me any ear defenders,' he added, looking accusingly at Molly.

'Oh, stick your fingers in your ears, like any normal person,' Molly retorted, with feigned annoyance.

'How can I when I'm holding Freddie?'

'I'll get you a pair from the gun room, if you're going to be difficult,' Mycroft intervened.

'Oh!' Sherlock replied, with a look of great surprise. 'Why didn't I think of that?'

'Do you really want me to answer that question?' his brother asked, which made everyone laugh – except Sherlock, who just huffed.

ooOoo

At half past five, Meadows knocked at the back door to say he was just about to light the fire so the guests would be arriving in about half an hour. The family dispersed to their various rooms, to don warm clothing, and reassembled in the front hall, just before six o'clock. As promised, there was a set of ear defenders on the hall stand, which Sherlock claimed, with a smug flourish.

They all trooped out of the front door and headed for the roaring fire, in the middle of the Home Meadow, right in front of the house. The air was cold and crisp, with a promise of frost, later. The sky was clear, and bright with the winter constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. Out here, in the country, with next to no light pollution, Sherlock could make out Orion, Canis Major, Gemini and Taurus. He stooped down, to point them out to William and Freddie, drawing particular attention to Orion, the Hunter, with his Belt and sword and drawn bow, and Sirius, the Nose of Canis Major and the brightest star in the night sky.

There was already a good crowd gathered and everyone greeted the family, respectfully, as they approached. This was the part that Sherlock found hardest to cope with. It was positively feudal but Mycroft played the role of Lord of the Manor to perfection, greeting each of the guests by name and chatting, easily, with them all.

While this was going on, Arthur went over to the row of expectant children, waiting with their guys for the final judgment. He walked along the row, inspecting both the guys and their creators and eventually chose a rather dilapidated manikin, which had been put together by the Reception group in the village school, for First Prize, and a rather more classic example – complete with twirled moustaches and a goatie beard – put together by two members of the Friday Youth Club, he put forward for a Special Commendation. This seemed to satisfy everyone.

Mycroft stepped into the light of the bonfire and raised a hand for order. As if by magic, everyone quietened. He thanked them all for coming, praised everyone for their hard work, all year, and the bumper harvest, announced the Guy competition winners and paused while the 'bodies' were hurled on the fire, then gave the signal for the firework display to begin.

Molly stood holding William's mittened hand, watching the dramatic display that lit up the night sky and sent booms, bangs, whoops and fizzes rolling across the surrounding countryside. She had to smile at the three men in her life, all in their Princess Leah bunches – her secret nickname for the ear defenders. She knew there was good cause for them all to be wary of loud noises but they just looked so odd. She wondered whether she could snap a sneaky photo, on her phone. It would be comedy gold at future dinner parties but Sherlock might never forgive her, so she decided against it.

With a final ground-shaking boom, an enormous starburst exploded above their heads, sending a thousand points of light shooting in all directions across the night sky. As the noise and the colour faded, the crowd broke into a spontaneous round of applause, clapping and cheering, then everyone turned back toward the heat of the fire, as Mrs Orgreave and a group of volunteers began to distribute hot toddies to the adults and hot chocolate to the younger generation. Molly and Sherlock declined the hot toddies but took mugs of chocolate for themselves and the boys.

An orderly queue formed, to collect paper cones of roast chestnuts, and baked potatoes, wrapped in kitchen foil and dolloped with melting butter, which they ate with wooden forks. Molly and Sherlock took their place in the queue, with the boys, but Molly could see how uncomfortable Sherlock was in this situation. He was never at ease in social settings but most especially in ones of this type, where people wanted to speak to him, engage him in casual discourse, ask him trivial questions - and expected answers. She could feel his desperate need to escape.

She managed to field and deflect most of the questions, drawing the verbal fire on herself, away from him, before his prickliness became too obvious and caused offence. At last, they reached the front of the line, collected their food and were able to escape. They retreated to a deserted spot, apart from the main, milling group, and Molly and the boys ate their baked potatoes – Sherlock had declined to take one – and they peeled and devoured their roast chestnuts, which Sherlock had accepted. Then, as it was well past the boys' bedtime, they turned back toward the house.

The moon was just rising – a gibbous moon, three-quarters full and incredibly bright, in the cloudless sky. Sherlock could barely keep his eyes off it, so much so that he nearly tripped up, when they stepped off the grass of the Home Meadow onto the gravel of the driveway. Freddie chortled at the sudden lurching movement and Sherlock chuckled back, the first time Molly had heard him laugh since they arrived at the house, that morning.

The next hour was taken up with the end of the day routine – bath, book and bed. The boys were in Hamilton, as usual, sharing a double bed. Since they didn't normally even share a room, being in the same bed was seen as quite a treat and it generally took longer to settle them, due to recurring bouts of giggling, Not so, tonight. The boys could not even last one page of the story – Charlotte's Web.

When Molly emerged from the Jack and Jill bathroom, having taken the direct route from Hamilton to Nelson, she found Sherlock standing in the dark by the window, looking out at the park, deserted now that all the guests had returned home. She crossed the room and stood next to him. The moon had cleared the treetops now and the entire scene was bathed in its silvery light. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

He turned toward her and brushed his palms over her temples, pushing the hair back from her face, and stroking down over her shoulders to take her upper arms in his gentle hands.

'She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies.' he intoned, in his rich, mellow baritone.

'One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impair'd the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.'

As he spoke the words of Byron's lyric poem, his eyes gleamed with such intensity, Molly's breath caught in her chest.

'My goodness, Sherlock,' she breathed, 'that was so beautiful….'

He turned away, suddenly, grasping her hand.

'Let's go for a walk,' he said, pulling her toward the door.

'Hang on!' she squeaked, 'It's freezing out there. Let me get my coat.'

They both put on their coats, scarves and gloves then made their way down the stairs and out of the front door, into the cold night air. He took her hand in his and began to stride across the lawn, the blades of grass under their feet just edged with a hoar frost.

'Slow down a bit,' she panted. 'I'm walking for two, remember.'

'Sorry,' he said, immediately slackening his pace to more of a stroll.

'Where are we going?' she asked, since it was obvious this wasn't just a random ramble.

'I want to show you something,' he replied, rather unhelpfully, since she had already worked that out for herself.

He led the way toward a stand of trees and up a small rise. When they reached the top, he stopped and they looked down into a broad, shallow valley, where the river meandered, its banks lined with willows. Where it was visible, between the trees, the water glimmered, darkly, in the moonlight. The sky arched overhead and the stars glittered like chips of crystal, above the still, silent scene.

Their breath billowed white in the sharp night chill, as they stood, side by side.

'When I was a boy,' he began, 'on clear, bright nights like this, I used to sneak out and come here to look for shooting stars. It's a bit late in the year for them, now, but we might be lucky.' He pointed towards the south west. 'Look in that part of the sky, that's where they usually appear.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She turned toward him and pressed her gloved hands to his chest, feeling his heart beat thudding, quite fast. He was excited, like a boy again. Could this actually be a happy memory?

They stood on that spot as the minutes ticked by and the cold seeped up from the ground, through the soles of her boots, into her feet, which she shuffled to try to keep some circulation going. She was about to suggest that perhaps they should go back to the house when he suddenly said, 'Look!' and pointed.

She followed the line of his arm and just caught the flashing trace of a meteorite, as it burned up in the Earth's atmosphere, leaving a decaying image on her retinas.

'Oh, wow!' she exclaimed. 'I haven't seen one of those for years!'

'Nor I,' he laughed. 'It's impossible in London. Too much light pollution. But out here….'

He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him, looking down, into her face, his smile morphing into something else, something odd, something unreadable.

'What?' she giggled, shrugging her shoulders and furrowing her brow.

He took a breath and said,

'Molly, will you marry me?'

ooOoo

**Special thanks to my homey, George Gordon Byron, for the loan of his peerless poetry. Like my Sherlock, he was educated at Harrow and Cambridge. He is buried behind the pulpit, in St Mary Magdalene Church, at the end of the street where I lived for twenty years. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, according to Lady Caroline Lamb - who was a bit of a fruit loop herself, actually - he was a lover of Armenian language and culture and did much to champion the cause of Armenian nationalism, for which he is, to this day, a national hero in Armenia. **


	50. Loose Ends Chapter 49

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Nine**

Molly's skin felt suddenly cold and her chest tight, constricted.

'What?' she gasped.

'I said, will you marry me?' he repeated, slowly, deliberately.

She stared at him, opening and closing her mouth as her brain whirred, until at last, her voice engaged and she spoke.

'But you….you said….I thought…' She did not seem able to form complete sentences.

He looked off into the distance for a brief moment, then back into her eyes.

'I know what I said. And when I said it, I really meant it.

'But now, you've changed your mind? When….how….why?' she stammered, feeling confused, disorientated, not even sure that this was really happening.

'I didn't change my mind,' he replied. 'You changed it for me, that night in the restaurant, when you said we didn't need a piece of paper to tell us how we felt about one another. And we didn't need to stand up in front of anyone but each other to declare our love and commitment.'

'So my saying that we _didn't_ need to get married, made you think that we _did_?' she said, feeling tears begin to prick her eyes but not really knowing why. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand…..'

He threaded his fingers through the hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek with his thumb.

'You said it but you didn't mean it. You just said it for me.'

She could not deny that was true. She swallowed, hard, instead.

He pulled her closer with his free arm.

'What Caro said was right. She said, 'In a woman's mind, a marriage contract has nothing whatsoever to do with ownership of anything or anyone. It is a public declaration of love. Her wedding day is the one day in a woman's life when she is the most important person in the world'.' He repeated Caro's statement, word for word.

The tears overflowed her lower lids and began to trickle, silently, down her cheeks.

'I want you to have that day, Molly. I want it for you,' he concluded, with almost a pleading edge to his voice, then waited, looking at her, begging with his eyes.

'What do you want me to say?' she asked, confused, not knowing what he was waiting for.

'I want you to say yes,' he whispered.

'Oh,' she choked, feeling her chest begin to heave with wracking sobs.

'Molly! Molly! Please don't cry,' he implored. 'Do you still want to marry me or not?'

'Of course I bloody do, you idiot!' she hiccoughed and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest.

He heaved a huge sigh of relief. For a moment, there, he had thought she was going to hit him. He hugged her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. Then he suddenly remembered there was something else he needed to do.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, he drew out a small velvet-covered box. Reaching round behind her back, he used both hands to open it then pushed it under her nose, to show her the contents. She rubbed the tears from her eyes with the back of a gloved hand and peered into the box, by the light of the moon.

Nestling inside was a magnificent ring. It was hard to discern colour in the pale light but she could see a dark stone, surrounded by a swirl of light coloured stones, all held suspended in an elaborate metal filigree setting. The overall effect was of a comet with a curling tail. It was his mother's ring.

'Oh, my god, that is so beautiful….' she managed to say, before her voice caught again.

He took his arm from around her and eased the ring out of the box then grasped her left hand and took it to his mouth, pulling off her glove with his teeth. She splayed her fingers and he slipped the ring onto the third one. It caught at the second joint.

'It's a bit small,' she observed.

'That can be fixed,' he countered. 'Your hands are a bit swollen, at the moment.'

'You say the sweetest things!' she sniffed, as she held her hand up to her face and peered at the precious stones.

'Sorry, I just meant...'

'It's Ok, Sherlock, I know what you meant, and you are right, my hands are a bit swollen at the moment.'

'Molly, you're shaking!' he exclaimed. And she was, partly with emotion but mostly from the cold. Her whole body was trembling. 'Come on, we need to get you somewhere warm,' he insisted.

'Here, take the ring. Put it back in the box, before I lose it,' she stuttered, though chattering teeth.

He saw the sense in that, slipped the ring off her finger, fitted it back into the box and pushed it back into his pocket. Then, putting his arm around her, he guided her back to the house.

ooOoo

They let themselves in through the back door, into the kitchen, where they were hit by a wall of warmth, emanating from the Aga. Sherlock pulled one of the kitchen chairs up close to the range and pushed Molly down onto the seat, to warm up, then lifted one of the hot plate covers and moved the kettle onto the heat, where it began to sing, immediately.

As Molly leaned on the Aga rail, soaking up the heat, he set up the tea tray with pot, mugs, strainer and milk jug. When the kettle boiled, he poured the hot water over the tea leaves and put the lid on the pot, then drew up a second chair and sat opposite her, smiling inanely, feeling quite light headed.

'We need to tell the boys, first thing tomorrow,' Molly affirmed and he nodded.

'And Mycroft and Arthur,' she added.

'Mycroft knows. Well, he knows I was going to ask you. I asked him if I could give you Mummy's ring. He told me it was mine to give. She left her wedding and engagement rings to me. Father left his to Mycroft,' he explained and Molly nodded her acknowledgement.

'Can I see it again?' she asked, a little shyly.

'Of course!' he replied. 'It is yours, after all.' He fished in his pocket and took out the ring box, again, placing it in her extended hand.

She opened the box, gingerly, hardly daring to look at the contents in the bright light of the kitchen. When she did, she gasped. It was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined.

The central stone, the body of the 'comet', was a 0.5 carat sapphire, cut in the star facet style, and the tail comprised seven diamond chips of varying sizes, all suspended in a platinum setting, on an eighteen carat gold shank. Molly tilted the box and the facets caught the light, reflecting it back in all directions. Mere words could not describe either the visual effect or her feelings as she gazed in awe and wonder at the ring. She closed the lid and handed the box back to him.

'I can't wear that when I do post mortems,' she choked, and burst into tears, again.

ooOoo

'When did you ask Mycroft about the ring?' she asked, once she had regained her composure and had a hot mug of tea in her hands.

'While you were bathing the boys,' he replied.

'Oh,' she nodded, still thinking. 'So, when did you decide to ask me?'

'Do you mean when did I decide to propose, or when did I decide to propose tonight?' he asked, for clarification.

'Both,' was the simple answer.

He propped his elbow on the Aga rail and his chin on his hand, took a swig of tea and replied,

'I wanted to do it at the foot of Christ the Redeemer – but I didn't have a ring. And a proposal without a ring is no proposal at all.'

He paused for a moment and then went on.

'I needed to see the ring before I decided it was the right one for you. Then I wanted it to be a special occasion. When I saw the moon, this evening, that's when I knew when and where. I just needed to ask Mycroft about the ring.'

'And if he had said no?'

'I would have done it anyway,' he replied, with a mischievous grin.

She pursed her lips and shook her head, in feigned disapproval, then took a sip of her own tea and asked,

'And when were you thinking we might do the dirty deed? Tie the knot, that is?'

'As soon as possible,' he replied, immediately.

'What, before you change your mind again?' She gave him a cautioning look.

'No!' he exclaimed. 'I'm not going to change my mind.'

He reached out and stroked her cheek.

'I really want to do this – not just for you and not just for the boys, either, or for the new baby but for me, too. I really want this.'

She didn't look convinced. It was hard to believe such a major 'C' change in his attitude.

'Really,' he repeated, with utter sincerity. 'So, you say when and where and let's do it,' he breathed.

'What about here?' she asked.

'What, here, in the house?' he wrinkled his brow. That possibility had not crossed his mind.

'No, not the house, the church, in the village,' she replied.

That possibility hadn't occurred to him, either, but he liked it better than the house.

'It's a beautiful little church. I've been in it a couple of times – when I used to bring William here, while you were away. I always thought it would be the perfect setting for a wedding.'

Now it was his turn to look unconvinced.

'It's very small,' he observed.

'How big does it need to be? There won't be that many people coming.'

At that statement, he looked rather relieved. Most of the weddings he had been to – mercifully few though they were – had been quite grand affairs, with hundreds of guests. The village church would probably only hold about fifty people, even at a pinch. It reassured him that Molly was not thinking of a wedding on a large scale.

'Let's face it, Sherlock, we don't have that many friends or family between us, do we?'

'No, we don't, thank… No we don't,' he corrected himself.

She reached out and took his hand.

'It's OK. I know this is not going to be easy for you. It's a groom's prerogative to be nervous on his wedding day. It's all fine.'

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

'We could go and see the vicar tomorrow, after Matins,' he suggested.

'Perhaps we should go _to_ Matins and take the boys – you know, show willing. It's one of the church's biggest grouches that people only go to church when they want something.'

'Well, historically, that is true. If nothing else, they want salvation,' he reasoned.

'Yes, let's take the boys to Matins tomorrow and have a chat with the vicar,' she affirmed, ignoring his last remark. 'Once we have a date, we can start planning. But I thing we do have a narrow time frame.'

He wondered, for a moment, what she meant by that until she looked down at her abdomen.

'I'm three and a half months now. I'd rather not waddle down the aisle – even though it is only a short one – and the thought of my waters breaking, as we stand at the altar, is not one I would relish.'

He had to agree with that sentiment.

So, it was decided. They would talk to the local clergyman the next day and take things from there. He tugged on her hand, to pull her into his lap, and they sealed the agreement with a tender kiss – which was interrupted by the sudden entrance into the kitchen of Arthur, in search of a late night snack.

'Oh, excuse me! I didn't realise you two love birds were in here. Have you been outside?' he asked, eyeing their coats, since they were still wearing them.

'Yes, we went for a walk,' Sherlock replied, looking distinctly embarrassed.

'It's Ok. I think that's allowed. You're not under house arrest or anything,' Arthur quipped, as Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

'Is this a private party or can anyone join in?' he asked, looking from Sherlock to Molly and back again, clearly trying to discern whether or not his brother had carried out his earlier stated intension.

'It's an engagement party, actually,' Molly declared, with a broad smile

And the hugging and handshaking then began in earnest.

ooOoo

**I must thank my brother for the design of the ring. He is a jeweller - a stone setter, to be precise - and he designed and made that ring for his wife-to-be, back in the day.**


	51. Loose Ends Chapter 50

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifty**

By the next morning, as if by osmosis, news of the engagement seemed to have spread to the whole household. When Molly and Sherlock brought the boys down to breakfast, Andrew was first to offer his congratulations, when their paths crossed in the front hall. As the family entered the breakfast room, Sara and Michele looked up, smiling, from the task of supervising Katy and Charlie with their porridge, and gave their congratulations, too.

Fortunately, the 'happy couple' had already explained to William and Freddie, when the two boys burst into their room, that morning, that Mummy and Daddy were going to 'get married'. Freddie had never been to a wedding and William had only been to one – that of John and Mary – but he had been very young at the time and did not remember it at all.

'What does 'married' mean?' William had asked.

'It's when two people decide they love each other so much they want to spend the rest of their lives together,' Molly had explained. 'So they go to church, or sometimes to a Registry Office or even to a hotel or some other place,' – this was getting complicated, she thought – 'and they stand up, in front of everyone and make promises to each other, that they will stay together for the rest of their lives. And they sign a register and are given a piece of paper that says that they are married. And then they have a party.'

William thought about that for a while then nodded and said,

'Will Daddy go to the party? He doesn't really like parties.'

'On this occasion,' Sherlock replied, 'Daddy will go to the party.'

'And he will make a speech,' added Molly, which caused Sherlock to close his eyes and grimace, 'and he will dance with Mummy,' at which he opened his eyes and gave a half smile. Now, the dancing he could do. Both he and Mycroft had been taught to dance for the purpose of attending debutante balls, hunt balls and charity events. Their mother had insisted on it. And he actually quite enjoyed dancing. It was one of the few social activities that he did enjoy.

At Harrow, it being an all-boys school, social events had been arranged with a nearby girls' school and Sherlock's dance card was always full – partly because he was an excellent dancer but also because – unlike many of the other boys – he was not a groper. The young ladies appreciated that. That he never spoke to them, except to say 'thank you' at the end of each dance, was less appreciated, as was the fact that he never asked to see any of them outside of the formal social setting.

Some of them assumed he was gay, some thought he must have a girlfriend, somewhere, to whom he was totally committed, some thought he must have had his heart broken at some point and was still recovering from that and others thought he was a weirdo who just happened to be able to dance. Either way, they accepted he was off the market and didn't press the issue – except for one young lady, at a debutante's ball, when he was nineteen, who had tried to seduce him and then run from the room in tears when he had listed the names of all the other young men in the room with whom she had been intimate and suggested she visit a GUM clinic at her earliest convenience.

'That part I will look forward to,' he said, with relish.

'Really?' Molly exclaimed.

'Yes, really. I can dance, you know.'

'Oh, I can't!' she replied.

'Really?' he asked.

'Yes, really,' she mimicked him. 'It wasn't on the curriculum at my local comprehensive.'

'Then I'll teach you,' he replied, and kissed the end of her nose.

After breakfast, with Molly pushing Freddie in the buggy and William holding Sherlock's hand, they walked down to the village, arriving just as the four bells in the tower of St Mary the Virgin, began to ring, summoning the congregation to the service.

St Mary's was, essentially, a Norman church, as evidenced by the square tower, dating from the Eleventh Century. The cedar-shingled 'splay-foot' or chamfered' spire had been added later. The church was built from stone, flint and brick, which was partly rendered, and had a tiled roof. The layout consisted of a nave with a south aisle, which had four narrow, stained glass windows, a timber-framed north porch, the chancel, with a three-light window, depicting the Virgin Mary surrounded by cherubim, and the west tower. The nave windows had trefoil heads. It was a pretty little church and Molly could not imagine a nicer place to get married.

The front three rows, either side of the aisle, were box pews and Sherlock walked down the nave, straight to the one at the front, which was vacant. He opened the little gate and stood back for Molly and the boys to enter ahead of him, then sat down himself and closed the gate. As Molly looked around, she noticed the cartouche, on the wall, alongside this pew. It was the Holmes coat of arms. This was the family pew. It had probably been the family pew for as long as the family had lived here, which was several hundred years.

As the tiny church gradually filled up with worshipers, the locals all looked at her and Sherlock and, when they caught his or her eye, nodded respectfully. He tried to avoid eye contact by staring straight ahead, at the altar and the ornate window in the chancel. The organ played quietly in the background until, following some subtle signal, it began to play the processing hymn and everyone rose to their feet, as the vicar, the verger and the members of the choir processed up the aisle and took their places in the quire and before the altar.

Molly recognised the vicar and the verger from the bonfire party, the night before, but being dressed in mufti, she hadn't known who they were. They were, in fact, two of the people who had tried to engage Sherlock in conversation, in the queue for the roast chestnuts and baked potatoes. She hoped his rudeness didn't jeopardise their chances of getting married here.

The service proceeded, with the usual prayers and hymns and a mercifully short sermon and, after forty-five minutes, came to a close with the officials processing back down the aisle. The parishioners filed out of the pews and followed the members of the choir, who then peeled off into the vestry, to divest themselves, whilst everyone else left the building through the main door.

Sherlock hung back until everyone else had left, then he stood and opened the gate to their pew, once more, holding it open for Molly and the boys to step out then closing it again. They made their way to the exit, where the vicar was just saying goodbye to the last of the congregation. He turned to greet the Hooper-Holmes party.

'Mr Holmes, how nice to see you and your lovely family again so soon,' he gushed. 'It has been a while since the Holmes family pew was occupied on a Sunday morning.'

'Well, we do have an ulterior motive,' Sherlock replied, rather unhelpfully.

'Yes,' Molly intervened, as the poor clergyman's face fell, 'we rather wanted to have a little chat with you.'

The reverend looked to Molly and smiled.

'Of course, I would be delighted to have a chat although, unfortunately, I am in rather a hurry, right at this moment.' It was Molly's turn to look disappointed.

'Yes, unfortunately, this is one of three churches that are in my care and I have to dash over to the next village to conduct the Eucharist. And, later, I'll be presiding over Evensong in my third church.'

'Oh, dear, you are a very busy man,' Molly remarked, lamely.

'Perhaps you'd like to come to lunch, at the house, today,' Sherlock interjected, with an imperious wave of his hand. 'We could chat before – or after.'

The young cleric looked surprised but not displeased to be invited to lunch at the big house.

'I would be delighted,' he replied. 'What time would you like me to arrive?'

'Would one o'clock be OK?' Molly asked, smiling apologetically at the poor man.

'I would have to come straight from Eucharist,' he replied, looking apprehensive.

'That will be absolutely fine,' she replied. 'We are very informal.'

'Then I shall look forward to it,' he smiled and hurried back inside the church to divest himself before dashing off to his next gig.

Sherlock was putting Freddie back in his buggy for the walk home when Molly accosted him.

'Do you have to be so rude?' she hissed.

He looked round, surprised and a little hurt.

'I wasn't rude! I invited him to lunch, didn't I?'

'It wasn't what you said but the way you said it,' she admonished him. 'You made him feel uncomfortable.'

Sherlock splayed his hands, in a gesture of bewilderment.

'That is the person who is probably going to marry us. You can't go around belittling him!'

'In what way did I belittle him?' Sherlock rebutted.

Molly shook her head, in exasperation, and taking William's hand, began to walk away, leaving him to push the buggy – an activity he loathed. He stared after her, in shock and amazement, then, with a huff of resignation, he took hold of the buggy handles and followed in her wake.

'Thanks for your support, Freddie,' he muttered, as his youngest son began to chortle, loudly, at the novelty of being pushed by Daddy. 'Just wait 'til you have a hormonal, pregnant woman in your life. You won't be laughing then.'

ooOoo

By the time they reached the end of the drive to the house, Sherlock had promised to be charm personified to the vicar, over lunch, and Molly had relented and taken charge of the buggy.

'You'd better go and tell Mrs Orgreave that there will be one extra for lunch,' Molly huffed, as they entered the house through the front door.

Molly,' Sherlock said, 'I am sorry if I was rude to the vicar but he did seem about to tell us his entire work schedule for the whole parish. I just brought him back on task. I will go and tell the cook that we have one extra for lunch and I will tell Mycroft, too. Why don't you go and have a lie down? I'll take care of the boys.'

Molly stared at him, bristling with indignation at his inference that she was only annoyed because she was over-tired or perhaps that she was being unreasonable, due to some hormonal imbalance associated with pregnancy. But rather than have a full-blown argument, in front of the boys, she just said,

'Fine,' and stalked off up the stairs.

Sherlock took Freddie out of the buggy and stowed it under the stairs. He took off all their outdoor clothing and hung them on the hall stand, then took the boys into the kitchen. Mrs Orgreave was there, in her apron, peeling and chopping vegetables, at the kitchen table.

'Oh, good morning, Mr Sherlock!' she effused. 'May I offer my congratulations to you and Miss Hooper, on your forthcoming nuptials?'

'Yes, thank you, Mrs O, that is very kind of you. I have taken the liberty of inviting the vicar to lunch, so we can discuss a date for the wedding. I'm sorry it's such short notice.'

'Not a problem, sir,' she insisted. 'I can always stretch to one more mouth. That is absolutely fine. Would you and the little ones like a midmorning snack?'

'I would love a cup of tea, thank you, and the boys would love some thing, too, I'm sure,' he replied.

'What about some hot chocolate? And I'm sure I have some apple cake in the cupboard. Would you like some of that?' the cook addressed her question to the two boys.

William nodded, enthusiastically, and said,

'Yes, please, Mrs O,' as Sherlock pulled out two chairs from under the table, one for William and one for himself, with Freddie in his lap. Freddie just eyed the colourful selection of raw vegetables – the orange carrots, the green broccoli, the red potatoes and the creamy coloured parsnips – with fascination.

'Will Miss Hooper be joining you for a cup of tea?' the cook asked.

'No, thank you. she's a little tired and has gone to lie down.'

'All this excitement, especially in her condition, that will take it out of you,' the cook added, nodding knowingly.

Sherlock wondered how the cook could possibly know that Molly was pregnant, since her stomach was still completely flat, but he didn't even try to fathom it. Women, he had come to realise, have powers of deduction to rival his own, when it came to anything to do with interpersonal relationships – which included reproduction, apparently. He just smiled his thanks to the lady, as she placed a mug of steaming tea in front of him and two mugs of foaming hot chocolate in front of the boys, along with a plate, bearing three slices of apple cake.

His life had suddenly become transparent. He was engaged to be married, everyone seemed to know Molly was pregnant and he was going to have to be especially nice to the vicar. The sooner this wedding was over and done with the better, he thought. then, perhaps, life could get back to normal.

ooOoo

**My sincere thanks to Fordwich Church, in Kent, for doubling as St Mary the Virgin in this story. I have altered the details a little but it is, essentially, the same place - a beautiful little Norman church with a fascinating history. If you ever are in the vicinity, pay it a visit. It is open to the public every Saturday. **


	52. Loose Ends Chapter 51

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifty One**

The young vicar arrived promptly at one o'clock and was shown, by Andrew, to the drawing room where the family were assembled, waiting for the lunch bell to sound. Andrew announced him as,

'The Reverend Mr James Rutledge.'

Mycroft took matters in hand, rose to greet him and shook his hand.

'James, how lovely to see you. Have you met everyone?'

He then went around the room, introducing everyone by name and was about to invite the guest to sit down when the bell rang and everyone rose to go to the dining room.

Over lunch, the conversation was broad and general. Molly's mood seemed much improved by her nap but she gave Sherlock a few meaningful glances. He chose to concentrate on Freddie, cutting up his food and helping him to master the fine art of stabbing morsels with a fork and transferring them to the mouth without poking one's self in the eye. The presence of three toddlers at the table ensured that lunch was a fairly lively affair.

When it was over, Arthur and the nannies took the three little ones off to the nursery for their afternoon nap and Mycroft invited William to join him in the library, to look at the huge Victorian atlas that was his favourite book of the moment. He was fascinated by the fact that everything coloured pink was part of the British Empire – and there were vast swathes of pink on every continent.

Sherlock and Molly invited Mr Rutledge back to the drawing room, where Andrew served coffee.

Molly opened the discussion.

'As you may have guessed, Mr Rutledge, we would like to get married in the village church.'

James Rutledge beamed at both parties.

'I had thought as much and so I took the precaution of bringing along my appointments diary,' he said, grinning and fishing a smart phone from his jacket pocket.

'When did you have in mind? A spring wedding, summer? May is very popular,' he went on, flicking though the months on his electronic calendar.

'We were hoping for a little sooner,' Sherlock interjected.

'Oh,' said the cleric. 'How much sooner?'

'When is your earliest available date?'

The man swiped back through the months.

'Well, I do have one date available but it is only seven weeks away.'

'Christmas Eve,' Sherlock stated, after a lightning-quick calculation. He looked at Molly.

'Yes, Mr Holmes, Christmas Eve. I'm conducting Midnight Mass in the next village, at eleven thirty p.m., but prior to that, I'm free all day and so is the church. But seven weeks is not a long time to plan and prepare for a wedding. Most people take months – years, even.'

Sherlock was about to point out that they were not 'most people' but he caught Molly's warning look and thought better of it.

'We only want a small, quiet wedding, Mr Rutledge,' Molly explained, 'so seven weeks should not be a problem.'

'Alright, then,' the young man smiled, broadly. 'Normally, of course, when a young couple come to me to talk about getting married, we have a little chat about the meaning of a wedding, the sanctity of the estate of marriage and its purpose as an environment in which to bring children into the world but, obviously…'

He spotted the hardening quality of Sherlock's gaze and left the sentence unfinsihed, saying instead,

'I have a leaflet about charges – the hiring of the church, my own fee, the cost of an organist and choristers, if you would like the choir.' He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out an A5 two-leaf document, handing it to Molly, as the safer bet. 'Would you like to think about it some more - or shall I just book you in?'

'What do you think, Molly,' Sherlock asked.

'I think a Christmas Eve wedding would be lovely,' she replied, smiling.

The vicar looked relieved and his finger hovered over the face of his phone.

'Morning or afternoon?' he asked.

'Afternoon,' said Sherlock, looking only at Molly.

'Fine,' said the Reverend. 'Any particular time?'

Sherlock still looked at Molly.

'Three o'clock,' she murmured, with a dreamy glaze to her eye, as though she were already seeing herself walking down the aisle of that lovely little church.

'Excellent!' chirped the vicar, tapping the time and the details into his phone.

'OK, there's just the matter of the banns,' he said, looking from one to the other.

Sherlock gave him a tolerant look, inviting him to continue.

'The banns must be read out on at least three separate Sundays – usually consecutive Sundays – not only in the church where you intend to marry but also in the parish church where either the bride or the groom reside, if it is different to the venue of the actual wedding. You don't have to be present for the reading of the banns but most couples like to attend at least one reading and some invite their friends and family to attend, too. It can be quite lovely,' he concluded.

'We will probably attend at least one of the readings,' Molly advised him. 'Do we need to do anything else? Provide evidence of our status or anything?' she asked.

'No, Miss Hooper. I just need evidence of your dates of birth and your current address. You could bring that when you come to hear the banns being read. The purpose of the banns is to announce your intension to marry and to provide an opportunity for any objections to be raised. If anyone knows of a reason or reasons why you should not wed, they can voice those, then.'

'Well, can we discuss the fine details and get back to you?' Molly asked. 'We will definitely want the organ but I'm not sure about the choristers. We'll talk it over and let you know.'

Noting that the discussion seemed to be ended, the vicar rose and Sherlock and Molly did, too. The young man reached into his pocket again and took out a calling card.

'If you think of anything else you need to ask or when you decide about the choir, you can reach me by phone, text or email. All the details are there,' he explained, handing the card to Sherlock, this time, and shaking hands with both of them. They walked him to the front door and said goodbye, then returned to the drawing room.

'Seven weeks isn't long so we need to hit the ground running,' Molly observed.

'If you say so,' Sherlock replied, having no idea what so ever what might be involved in planning a wedding. It was not something he had ever given any thought to. 'Where do we begin?'

'We need to draw up a guest list, so we know how many people we're catering for. You need a Best Man and I need someone to give me away. I need a dress, you need a suit. I need a bouquet, you need a button hole – in fact all the wedding party need a button hole. We need to choose hymns and readings, and choose people to do the readings. We need ushers. And we need to plan our Reception.'

Sherlock just listened as she reeled off all these things they needed. She noticed he wasn't saying anything – not even nodding or shaking his head.

'Is there a problem?' she asked.

'Should there be?' he asked back.

'Well, you're not saying anything,' she retorted.

'You seem to have it all in hand,' he replied.

'I can't do it all on my own,' she protested, beginning to look annoyed again.

He pursed his lips, stood up, crossed to the sofa and sat down next to her, taking her hand in his.

'Molly, we are getting married. We are doing this thing together. It's going to be the happiest day of our lives.' He kissed her hand.

'I've never planned a wedding. I haven't the first idea what is required _but_,' and he stressed that word, 'John and Mary have been there, done that and I am sure they will both want to help us sort this out.'

She looked at him and her eyes began to fill with tears, again.

'I am sorry,' she choked. 'I am turning into Bridezilla, aren't I?'

He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumb then drew her into a hug.

'I just need to calm down and stop panicking,' she told herself and him. He, wisely, refrained from comment.

'Seven weeks is plenty of time. We can do this,' she said. He nodded then tucked her head under his chin and settled back on the sofa, stroking her cheek with his hand. Everything was happening so quickly. Twenty four hours ago, they weren't even engaged and now they had a date and a venue.

'Who will you ask to be your Best Man?' she asked, suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

'John, of course.'

'Not Mycroft?'

'No. He wouldn't expect me to ask him. He would know I would ask John.'

'Do you think he would give me away?'

'Who, John?'

'No, Mycroft,' she tutted.

'Oh! Erm, yes, I'm sure he'd be honoured to give you away. But, why him?'

Molly withdrew her head from under his chin and looked at him.

'While you were away, Mycroft was very good to me and William. He really looked after us, like a true friend. Like a father. I don't have any living male relatives and, even if I did, I can't think of anyone I would rather walk me down the aisle than Mycroft.'

'Then you should ask him.'

She leaned against him again and slipped her head back under his chin, where it felt safe and secure.

'I don't want any bride's maids but I will ask Mary to help me plan the wedding. She will know all the little details, all the pitfalls that will need attending to.'

Then she suddenly sat up again, looking askance.

'Oh, good god! I'm going to have to tell my mother!'

'She'll be pleased, won't she? She's the one who's made such a palaver about you 'living in sin',' he pointed out.

'Yes, but she will want to call the shots! And, she will want to invite the world and his wife!'

'You'll just have to tell her it's your wedding, not hers, and you will do it how you want it and invite who you want to invite,' he replied.

She looked at him as though he were a little deranged.

'You know my mother, Sherlock. She won't take no for an answer…...'

He placed a finger on her lips, then replaced the finger with his own lips and silenced her protests.

'Just leave her to me,' he murmured then wrapped both arms around her and kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his lap and losing them both to the moment.

ooOoo


	53. Loose Ends Chapter 52

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifty Two**

At four o'clock, the family assembled, once more, in the kitchen, for Afternoon Tea and the sole topic of conversation was the forthcoming wedding. Nothing was said about who would play what role. Molly had insisted that Sherlock speak to John first and then she would ask Mycroft, in private, if he would give her away, so he could be free to refuse if he chose, though Sherlock was certain he would not.

After Tea, it was time for the Hooper-Holmes branch of the family to leave for home. As they were transported down the driveway, in Mycroft's car, Molly was already making a mental list of things that needed to be done. She could hardly wait to get home and commit it all to paper, in her note book. She always thought best with a pen and notebook in her hand.

Once the boys were in bed, she sat at the kitchen table and began to plan. Organisation was the key and she was nothing if not practical.

'You will ask John as soon as possible, won't you?' she reminded Sherlock. 'I can't speak to Mary until you've told him. It wouldn't be right.'

Sherlock could not think why it wouldn't be right, himself, but if Molly said it wouldn't then he assumed that must be the case.

'I'll ask him tomorrow,' he assured her.

'Good.' She put a large asterisk next to 'Ask John' at the top of her list.

One thing that had been discussed at the Tea table had been the venue for the Wedding Breakfast. Mycroft had insisted it should be the house and had asked Mrs Orgreave, there and then, whether she thought they could handle it.

'Of course, sir,' she replied. 'We will need to hire in some staff but I'm sure the usual people in the village would be more than happy to oblige,'

By 'the usual people', she meant the people who were taken on as extra staff for the shooting weekends, which occurred about four times a year, during the season.

Mrs O had also taken Molly to one side, as the tea party broke up, and offered her a business card.

'I hope you don't think me presumptuous, Miss Hooper, but my daughter has her own baking business. She runs it from home but she has a website. She makes all kinds of celebratory cakes – right here, in the village – and she would be delighted, I'm sure, to make your wedding cake,' she had explained, a little embarrassed to be so forward. 'Please, have a look on her website. She has made some lovely things. But don't feel obliged to choose her, of course.'

Molly had thanked the cook and pocketed the card. Now, sitting at the kitchen table, she opened her laptop and found the cake maker's web site. She was pleasantly surprised. It seemed that Mrs Orgreave's daughter had a real flair for cake design, from cupcakes, through character birthday and christening cakes, to anniversary and wedding cakes.

Her original ideas were not limited to the cake decorations, either. She seemed to have some very intriguing notions when it came to actual cake flavours. Molly considered the convenience of having the cake made so close to the reception venue. It was an added incentive. She thought she should research the market before making a final decision but it would have to be something exceptional, she thought, to beat this option.

The thought foremost in her head, however, concerned her wedding dress. By Christmas Eve, she would be just over five months pregnant. She would not be enormous but she would be showing, so a fitted dress was out of the question. She wondered what style she should choose. She really wished she had Rachelle here to take just one look and know exactly what she needed to wear. But the dress designer was eight thousand miles away so that was not an option.

She would have to visit some bridal shops, try on some styles and see what looked best – then add on a few inches round the middle. Not for the first time that day, she wondered whether they had been a little ambitious. Should they defer the wedding until after the baby was born? She gave a mental shake of her head. She was panicking again. It would be fine. Mary would be full of good advice. John would steer Sherlock in the right direction. It would all be fine.

ooOoo

Next morning, Sherlock kissed Molly and Freddie and waved them off to St Bart's before getting William ready for school and taking him there. Returning home to shower, shave and dress, he left the flat at around nine thirty, to take a cab to Baker Street. He had a priority list in his head, number one being to speak to John Watson. Once in the cab, he sent a text.

'Assistance urgently required. Come to 221B asap.'

As he opened the main front door to the house, he wondered when he should tell Mrs Hudson about the weekend development but decided he would wait for John. He would know the right protocol. When had he become so concerned with doing things the right way, he wondered? When had life become this complicated?

Once safely ensconced in the sitting room of 221B – his haven and sanctuary from the rigors of the outside world – he put on the kettle and opened up his laptop on the kitchen counter, so he could check his emails whilst waiting for the water to boil. There were seven enquiries after his services, from private individuals, who had found him via his website. Three he dismissed, immediately, as they were people wanting him to find out whether their partners were having illicit affairs.

'Why don't you just ask them?' he muttered to himself, as he deleted those requests.

One was from a company director who suspected his partner was embezzling money from the business. That was a possibility. He starred the email. Two more were requests to investigate cases already being looked into by the police. That did not necessarily preclude him. If anything, it made them more attractive. There was nothing quite so much fun as solving a crime before the police did – especially if he were engaged by the one of the protagonists. In these two cases, one was the victim and the other was the prime suspect. He starred both of those, too. The final case was a missing person.

Having made a cup of instant coffee, black with two sugars, he carried both the cup and the laptop to his favourite chair and sat down, the laptop on his knee, to read the details whilst sipping his drink.

A fifteen year old boy had withdrawn £300 from his savings account and caught a train from Leeds to London, three months ago. The last known sighting was on the CCTV at King's Cross Station and a grainy copy of the security camera image was attached to the email. Sherlock downloaded the image and studied it. He was big for is age, this boy, a prop forward if ever there was one. He certainly looked older than fifteen, having quite a stubbly chin and long sideburns. He easily would have passed for early twenties, Sherlock surmised.

He was dressed in jeans, a plain t-shirt and a pair of dark coloured trainers, and carried a rucksack over one shoulder. His hair was short but not clippered and was a medium colour. Sherlock checked the written description - mid-brown, wavy hair. There had been some kind of family argument, the night before the boy disappeared. This was a case for the Homeless Network. If the young man was still in London, the Homeless Network would find him.

He sent off a reply email, provisionally accepting the case, and attaching a copy of his terms and conditions. This was, essentially, a contract, which John had drawn up for him, to ensure that he charged realistically for his services. It stipulated an advance and a daily fee plus reasonable expenses. If the client returned this signed and transferred the advance into his account, then he would work on the case.

He returned to the first of the three starred emails and was just reading the details when he heard the front door open and close and the sound of John Watson's footsteps running up the stairs. The doctor burst in, through the sitting room door, and skidded to a halt on the big rug, panting for breath.

Sherlock looked up at him, the hand holding his coffee cup paused mid-way to his mouth and a questioning expression in his eye.

'You said it was urgent,' John gasped, reaching for the arm of the sofa and lowering himself onto the seat.

'Oh, well, thank you for your prompt response,' Sherlock replied, closing his laptop and placing it on the side table, beside his chair.

'Was just going to bed. Night shift. So. What's the emergency?' the other man panted, still getting his breath back.

'It's not really an emergency,' the detective replied.

'You said 'urgent',' John countered, beginning to look annoyed.

'Urgent isn't the same as emergency,' Sherlock stated.

John closed his eyes and clenched his fists, counting to ten, slowly, in his head, then looked back at his pedantic friend and said,

'What is so urgent?'

'Ah,' the younger man replied. 'Molly and I are getting married. I wondered if you would be my Best Man.'

The doctor's face froze. In fact, his whole body froze. He even stopped breathing and then broke out in a fit of coughing, as his lungs demanded air. Sherlock hesitated for a moment then put down his mug, stood and crossed to the sofa, sitting next to his friend, reaching out to pat him on the back.

'Are you alright?' he asked, a little taken aback by the other man's reaction to his statement.

John waved his hand in the direction of the kitchen and gasped, 'Water!'

The tall detective disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water in his hand, which he gave to the doctor, who had stopped coughing and was now just wheezing, a little.

'Of all the things that I might have imagined you would say, that was the least likely', John explained, as he sipped the water and was able to speak more normally. 'But congratulations! And, thank you, I would be delighted – honoured, in fact – to be your Best Man. Good God! That's amazing!' He seemed stunned by the news.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to take that. Was it really that unlikely? But he dismissed that line of thought and returned to the matter in hand.

'Good, because the wedding is in seven weeks and we need all the help we can get,' he announced.

John's jaw dropped again.

ooOoo


	54. Loose Ends Chapter 53

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifty Three**

'So what brought this on?' John asked, once he was seated in his favourite chair, holding in his hand a mug of hot tea, which he had insisted Sherlock make for him.

'Brought what on?' Sherlock asked.

'The sudden desire to get married,' John replied.

'It wasn't sudden. I've been thinking about it for a while.'

'Really? So what took you so long, then?'

Sherlock looked down at the floor then replied,

'I was waiting for the right moment.'

John could not help himself. He burst out laughing and Sherlock shot him a black look.

'Why is that so funny?' he asked, archly.

'Sorry, sorry,' his friend giggled, 'it's just the very notion of you waiting for the right moment to do anything is just so bizarre…..'

'John, you seem hell bent on ridiculing me. How would you have felt had someone ridiculed you, when you proposed to Mary?'

'They did, mate, all my Army buddies, every one of them. And Lestrade. It's what people do.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and huffed down his nose but made no further comment.

'So, why the rush?' John ventured to ask.

'Well, Molly's pregnant…..'

'She's been pregnant twice before, mate, you never asked her to marry you those two times - before, during or after.'

'John, if you are going to keep interrupting, how will I ever answer all your frankly intrusive questions?' Sherlock looked most put out.

The doctor held up his hands in a gesture of surrender then mimed pulling a zip across his lips and sat back, wearing a smug grin.

'Molly is nearly four months pregnant. She wanted to get married before she got too big. The church was available on Christmas Eve and she liked the idea of getting married on that particular day.'

John nodded to confirm his comprehension.

'And where is this church?'

'In the village, in Hertfordshire.'

'Well, that sounds lovely. Well done,' John concluded and sipped his tea, just as they both heard the front door close and Mrs Hudson climbing the stairs.

'Does she know?' John asked.

'No,' Sherlock replied.

'Are you going to tell her?'

'Should I?'

John shook his head in despair, just as Mrs H appeared in the doorway, carrying a loaf of bread and a fresh pint of milk.

'Hello, boys!' she greeted them, brightly, as she passed through the sitting room and then straight to the kitchen, to put the milk in the fridge and the bread on the counter.

'Did you have a nice weekend?' she asked them both, looking from one to the other.

'Well, I was working for most of it, Mrs H, but Sherlock, here, had a very special weekend, didn't you?' John prompted.

Sherlock glared at him, as Mrs Hudson turned to look at him, expectantly.

'You might need to sit down, Mrs H,' John added, causing Sherlock to jump up from his seat and look daggers at his friend, whilst leading the older lady by the arm to the sofa and sitting down with her, holding her hand.

Mrs Hudson wrinkled her brow and searched his face for clues as to what this odd behaviour could presage.

'Molly and I,' Sherlock began slowly and distinctly, 'are engaged to be….' He didn't actually get to finish the sentence. The landlady cum surrogate mother threw up her hands and uttered a squeal of delight, before wrapping her arms around his neck and almost squeezing the breath out of him.

'Oh! Oh!' she mewed. 'I always hoped but I never imagined…oh!' and dissolved into tears.

John had foreseen this eventuality and was on hand with a clean tissue, from the box on the bookshelf. Sherlock extricated himself from the older lady's grasp and moved off the sofa to allow John and his practiced bedside manner to take his place. The doctor soon had things under control.

'You haven't heard the whole story, Mrs H,' John chortled. 'They are getting married in seven weeks, on Christmas Eve!'

'Seven weeks?' she gasped. 'How on earth are you going to get everything sorted in seven weeks?'

'How hard can it be?' Sherlock pleaded, lamely.

'Oh, my goodness,' the lady said, sobering immediately and shaking her head. 'You are going to need some help.'

'We should be most grateful for any help or advice, Mrs Hudson,' he replied.

'Oh, lovely,' she smiled, gleefully. 'A Christmas Wedding! I can't imagine anything more romantic! Just wait til I tell Mrs Turner!' and with that, she jumped up and scurried off down the stairs, leaving Sherlock in her wake, feeling rather shell shocked.

ooOoo

Molly was in the Pathology Museum, at St Bart's, doing some research for another pathologist, who was writing a doctoral paper on the role of pollen in crime scene investigation, trying hard to keep her mind on the task. It was very difficult. She was horribly aware of how much needed to be done in a very short time and she wondered whether Sherlock had remembered to talk to John or had become embroiled in an investigation and forgotten all about the wedding. Her phone beeped in her lab coat pocket and she took it out, peering at the text message.

'John said yes. S.'

Oh, thank goodness, she thought, heaving a huge sigh. She switched to phone and speed dialled Mary's number, hoping she wasn't in court or interviewing a client, just at that moment. As luck would have it, she wasn't, and answered almost at once.

'Hi, Molly! Nice weekend?' came Mary's cheerful voice.

'Oh, Mary, you won't believe what we've done!' Molly blurted, almost sobbing.

Mary's tone changed immediately to one of concern.

'OK, Molly, just try to calm down. I'm sure whatever it is, we can sort it out. But just keep calm and think of the baby.'

'No, it's not a bad thing – although it is a bad thing, in a way. But really, it's a good thing, it's just so soon and I don't know if we can get it all done in time…..'

'Molly!' Mary interrupted and Molly stopped gabbling. 'Right, Molly, sweetheart, just tell me what you've done.'

'We got engaged!' she squeaked.

'But that's fantastic! Congratulations, Molly! Wow!' Mary squealed.

'Yes, that's the good bit. But we're getting married on Christmas Eve!'

Well, that's lovely too! A Christmas Wedding. How sweet. And if the new baby is a girl, she can be a flower girl – although she won't be walking yet, of course.'

'No, Mary, not next year. This Christmas Eve.'

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone and then Mary said,

'I'll be round tonight, eight o'clock. Don't worry, Molly, we can do this.'

ooOoo

True to her word, Mary arrived just as Sherlock was finishing the boys' bedtime routine. She had phoned the baby sitter and arranged for her to come and sit with Lily Rose, once she was settled in bed, then caught a cab straight over. And she had brought with her an A1 artist's portfolio absolutely bursting with wedding related ephemera.

'This was my wedding plan portfolio. I just collected everything I could lay my hands on, to do with weddings, and it helped me to choose the sort of wedding I wanted,' she explained.

'Oh, Mary, you are a genius!' Molly gushed, feeling a tidal wave of relief wash over her. For the first time in twenty-four hours, she actually felt calm. She had tried to keep a lid on her panic, as Mary had pointed out, for the sake of the baby. All that adrenalin wouldn't do the foetus any good at all. Now, she could feel all the tension draining away, as she sat at the kitchen table and opened out the portfolio.

'There will be things here that you don't like, but that is fine, because by knowing what you don't want, it will help you realise what you do want,' Mary advised.

Molly told her about the cake maker in the village and they looked on the website.

'Oh, those cakes are beautiful! And so original, too. The prices are reasonable, too. We paid almost that much for our wedding cake and it was for less attractive than that. Your wedding cake is the centre piece of the evening buffet. So it needs to be a showstopper. Any one of those cakes would be amazing. And having the baker so near, there's far less chance of the cake being damaged in transit.'

'Actually,' Molly suddenly thought aloud, 'since she is the daughter of Mycroft's cook, I bet he would let her make it in the house kitchen and store it in the pantry. Then it wouldn't need to travel at all'

Mary nodded her approval. That was one decision made. The cake maker was sorted.

ooOoo

By the end of the evening, with some input from Sherlock, the two women had come up with a design for the invitations and found a printer, on line, who boasted a forty-eight hour turnaround; they had identified three possible florists and had looked at lots of bridal gown websites. They had also written a comprehensive 'to do' list and roughed out a time line for when each task needed to be achieved. By the time Mary departed, leaving the portfolio behind for Molly to continue to look at – and add to – the bride-to-be felt they had made a very big dent in the planning.

Sitting on the sofa next to Sherlock, with a mug of Horlicks in her hand, she said,

'Shall we make a guest list?'

He shrugged his consent, so she put down the mug and picked up the trusty notepad.

''OK. John and Mary, Mycroft and Arthur, my mum and sister, Greg Lestrade plus one…'

'Plus one? Who's that?'

'Well, I don't know. Whoever he happens to be going out with, I suppose.'

'You mean a total stranger? Someone we don't even know?'

'Yes, probably.'

Sherlock thought about that for a few minutes. Molly left him to it.

'Mrs Hudson, Caro and Henrique….'

'Do you think they'll come all that way?'

'Who knows? I hope so. I mean, if it weren't for Caro, this probably wouldn't be happening, would it?'

'No, probably not. Any one else?'

'Sara and Michele…'

'The nannies?'

'Yes, they are practically family. And the twins will need someone to look after them, if Mycroft is giving me away. We can't expect poor Arthur to wrangle both of them.'

He shrugged again so she went on.

'William and Freddie, of course, and Lily Rose, and Katy and Charlie.' Se paused there. 'Is that everyone?'

'Yes,' he replied.

'It's not many, is it.'

'No, but it's enough. Legally, we only need two witnesses. We've got far more than that.'

'Witnesses. And readers. Who are we going to ask to do that?'

He shrugged again. The serial shrugging was beginning to rankle with Molly but she tried not to let it bother her.

'My mother will most likely want to be a witness. She probably won't believe we're married if she doesn't get to sign the register.'

'Is that what you want?' he asked.

'Yes, I think that, as the head of my family, she should bear witness.'

'Then I shall ask Mrs Hudson,' he said, decisively. It was the nearest Molly had ever heard him come to acknowledging that lady as the mother-figure in his life. She didn't say anything because she knew he would deny it.

'Oh, yes, she will love that. What about Arthur and Greg to do the readings?'

'We can ask them. They can always say no.'

'I'm sure they won't. Alright,' she summarized, 'John is Best Man, Mary, Maid of Honour – oh, did I tell you I asked Mary to be my Maid of Honour? She will keep me from freaking out, hopefully - Mycroft to give me away, Mum and Mrs H to be the witnesses, Arthur and Greg to be readers. Caro and Henriques, if they come and I hope they do, could look after William and Freddie. Then everyone has a role. Oh, except my sister!'

'Does she need to have a role? Can't she just be guest?'

'She will be upset if she doesn't have a role to play, if she is the only one. I suppose I will have to have her as a bridesmaid.'

'You don't have to do anything, Molly, it's your wedding.'

'It's our wedding,' she reminded him and he narrowed his eyes.

'I know it's _our_ wedding, Molly. I was just making the point that it's not your _sister's_ wedding. I meant nothing more by that statement. Is something bothering you?' he asked, directly.

She lowered her eyes and chewed her lip.

He reached out to stroke her hair and she looked up to meet his gaze.

Molly, what is bothering you?' he asked, gently.

'You don't seem very enthusiastic about the whole thing,' she replied. 'This is our wedding. I want you to enjoy it, too.'

He looked into her eyes and leant forward to place a soft, lingering kiss on her lips, before saying,

'I want to marry you. I want to be married to you. The process of getting married, I can't deny, is not something I relish. But I will try to be more helpful. Tell me what you want me to do, I'll do it.'

It was not really what Molly wanted to hear but it was what she had expected. As William had said, Daddy doesn't like parties, so the mere fact that he was willing to go along with all this was a huge concession on his part.

'Just, please, try not to shrug so much. It really is disheartening,' she replied.

'No more shrugging,' he promised and leaned in for another kiss. 'When do we start the dance lessons?' he asked.

'We need to choose a song, first.'

'I have no particular preference, just so long as it's a waltz,' he declared.

'Alright. I have a few favourite songs but I have no idea which ones are waltzes.'

'Send them to my phone. I'll listen to them and tell you what I think.'

That deal made, she picked up her Horlicks and leaned back against him.

'We should start your bio oil massages again,' he remarked, into her hair.

'That's why you wanted another baby,' she declared, 'just so you can massage me again!'

'Oh, you've discovered my evil plan,' he groaned. 'Bare bodied and pregnant, in the bedroom, my massage slave for ever more.'

'Ok, fine, but let me finish my Horlicks, first,' she giggled.

'I love it when you talk dairy,' he replied.

ooOoo


	55. Loose Ends Chapter 54

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifty Four**

The next morning, Sherlock was on a mission. On leaving the flat, he took a cab not to Baker Street but to Euston Station, where he caught a train to Northampton. His ultimate destination was a three bedroom semi in the suburbs, Molly's childhood home and the current residence of her sister, Karen, and her mother.

Once settled in his First Class seat and served with a fresh black filter coffee by the steward, he took out his phone to check his emails, using the train's wi-fi. The parents of the missing boy had returned the contract 'signed'. He went online to check his bank statement and saw that the retainer fee had been paid into the account by electronic transfer. That meant he could set his Homeless Network to looking for the runaway. He could do that on the way home, later this afternoon.

He spent the rest of the train journey on the Internet, checking the newspaper reports of the two cases that were being investigated by regional police forces – one in Nottinghamshire and one in South Yorkshire. These two counties were next door neighbours so he could, conceivably, investigate both at the same time, but he wanted to do the background reading, first, to get a feel of the possible culpability of the one client and the viability of the other case. If he concluded his business with Mrs Hooper quite quickly, he might see if he could meet at least one of these two, while he was in the general area.

Leaving the train at Northampton station, he climbed into a cab and gave the driver Mrs Hooper's address. He then found Molly's mother's phone number on his contacts list – having copied it from Molly's phone, the night before – and speed dialled it. It rang several times but, eventually, it was answered by Mrs Hooper, with a questioning tone.

'Hello?' She did not recognise the number, so was curious as to who might be ringing her mobile.

'Ah, Mrs Hooper, hello!' Sherlock replied, with exaggerated cheerfulness.

'Who's that?' she asked, in a voice full of suspicion.

'It's Sherlock Holmes. We have met.'

'Oh, Mr Holmes, how…er…how nice to hear from….is Molly alright?'

'She's fine, thank you, absolutely fine. And yourself?'

'I'm very well, thank you,' she trailed off, wondering why this man – who had been living with her daughter for nearly four years and whom she had only met once – was calling her on the phone. She desperately wanted to ask him the purpose of his call but he was speaking again.

'I was sort of in the neighbourhood so I thought I might just drop in for a visit, if you're at home,' he went on, in his faux chatty manner.

'Oh, well, I'm actually just about to…'

'So, I'm just on my way from the station. I should be with you in about five minutes.'

'But Mr Holmes….' She began to protest but he had already hung up. She shut off her own phone and glanced around the sitting room. Since retiring, eight months ago, Mrs Hooper had established a regular daily routine of rising at around eight thirty, showering and dressing, preparing a cup of tea and two slices of toast, and turning on the TV. She would watch morning television until the news break at eleven thirty a.m., when she would go into the kitchen and prepare another cup of tea, with two biscuits, and watch another hour of TV. This ritual was sacrosanct. Though her afternoons varied, her mornings were always the same.

It wasn't even eleven thirty and this man had just called up, out of the blue, and invited himself into her private world. How dare he? Not only that, but he had only given her five minute's notice. She gazed around at the lived-in comfort of her sitting room and leapt into action.

Two streets away from Mrs Hooper's home, he asked the cab driver to pull over, paid the fare and climbed out, noting the cab company's number on the side of the vehicle. He calculated that, at this precise moment, his soon-to-be mother in law would be rushing round her sitting room tidying, dusting, vacuuming and generally panicking. She would be listening for the approach of a car engine, to give her the precious seconds' notice to smooth down her hair and assume an attitude of serene composure with which she would greet her unexpected visitor. He was not about to allow her those seconds.

Having checked Google Maps, during the cab journey, he had spotted the cut-through footpath that led from the street he was now in to the one where Molly had grown up. He reached and turned down the alley, turning right at the other end and crossing the road, to approach Mrs Hooper's residence on the 'blind side', where instead of walking down the paved path to the front door, he stepped over the low perimeter fence and crossed the side lawn. In three short strides, he was standing in the shade of the door canopy. He reached out and pressed the bell.

Mrs Hooper looked around, surprised by the sudden, short, sharp sound of the doorbell. Who could that be? Today was proving to be an annoyingly unusual day. Whoever it was, she needed to get rid of them before her daughter's posh fancy man turned up. She was hideously embarrassed by her first-born's choice of lifestyle, fearful of the sharp tongues of the local gossips, so the last thing she needed was for one of those women to be given such a scoop as the actual appearance of the man himself in the neighbourhood.

She stomped across the freshly vacuumed carpet, through the hall door which she closed, firmly, behind her, and grasping the front door handle, she yanked it open.

'Mrs Hooper! How lovely to see you again!' the man enthused, standing there, right on her doorstep, in his big posh coat and his smart posh suit, talking in his bloody posh voice.

'Oh!' she gasped, as she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

A look of concern crossed his face.

'My dear lady, are you alright?' he asked, reaching out a black gloved hand toward her.

'Yes, yes,' she squawked. 'Come in, come in, quickly!' She grabbed his arm and practically dragged him through the door, giving a quick, furtive look up and down the street to make sure no one had witnessed his arrival. It was for that reason that she missed the self-satisfied grin that briefly graced his lips then morphed into his super-charming smile. He stood in the small front hallway, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for his hostess to invite him into the sitting room.

Having closed the front door, Mrs Hooper scurried into her front room and stood in the middle of the carpet, wringing her hands, glaring at the vacuum cleaner that was evidence of her recent frantic activity. Sherlock rocked on the soles of his feet, peering at her through the open door way, and said,

'May I come in?'

'What? Yes, of course, come in and sit down! I'll put the kettle.'

She turned and hurried toward the kitchen door on the opposite side of the sitting room. He was immediately struck by how much she reminded him of Molly, in the early days of their acquaintance, when he used to unnerve her to the point of being incapable of forming a coherent sentence. He stepped over the threshold and followed her to the kitchen.

With her back to him, at the sink, filling the kettle from the cold tap, she was not aware of his proximity until he spoke.

'Coffee, black, two sugars, thank you!'

She whipped around, clutching her hand to her chest, slopping water from the kettle onto the floor.

'Oh, Mr Holmes! You made me jump!'

'My sincere apologies, madam,' he purred, unbuttoning his coat and seating himself at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on the surface and plaiting his fingers together, still smiling in a way she found thoroughly disconcerting.

The kettle on, she stood on the opposite side of the table and looked at him, wringing her hands again. With what little functioning mental capacity she had, due to the shock of recent events, she wondered why on earth this man had turned up, unannounced, and was now sitting in her kitchen – where the breakfast crumbs were still scattered across the table top - smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

'I expect you're wondering why I'm here,' he said, in that rich dark voice of his.

'Er, no, not at all! You know you are welcome here anytime, you being Molly's….er…Molly's….' She could hardly use her usual sobriquet for him.

'Partner?' he supplied, helpfully.

She nodded, lamely, and turned with relief to prepare the mugs and make the coffee. He said nothing, as she brought the drinks over and slid his across the table before sitting down with her own mug.

'Well, that is very kind of you,' he replied, smiling self-deprecatingly. 'But I do have an ulterior motive in dropping by.'

He had that way of speaking that just oozed superiority and made her feel she should be standing in his presence and calling him 'sir'.

'Last Saturday,' he went on, 'I presumed to ask your daughter to do me the great honour of becoming my wife.' He paused for effect, as the message almost visibly percolated through her brain.

'And, I am delighted to report, she accepted.' He grinned at her again.

'What? You're getting married….?' Mrs Hooper only just managed to hold back on the 'at last' bit of that sentence.

'Indeed, we are,' he almost whooped, 'on Christmas Eve, at the church in the village near my brother's house. And we would be honoured if you would attend the wedding and sign the register, as one of the witnesses. We will be sending out invitations, in due course, with all the details but Molly's sister is also invited, obviously.'

'Christmas Eve?' she repeated.

'Yes, Christmas Eve, in seven weeks – well, six and a half weeks, now, I suppose.'

'But that's too soon!' she whimpered.

'Well, I agree it is rather short notice but I had the impression that our nuptials could not come too soon for you.' His face was suddenly less congenial, as his piercing eyes drilled into her own.

'Oh!' was all she could say.

But he was smiling again, and making a big show of looking at his watch.

'Well, I'm afraid I must love you and leave you, so to speak. I have an urgent appointment. But, as your future son in law, I rather wanted to deliver the good news in person and at the earliest opportunity.'

He was rising from his seat, his coffee abandoned, completely untouched. He walked round the table and extended his hand. She scrambled to her feet and took his hand in hers, feeling the cool, soft smoothness of his skin and the gentleness of his grip as he squeezed her limp fingers.

He turned and retraced his path to the front door, as she followed in his wake, feeling utterly befuddled. He was just about to open that door and let himself out when he paused and turned abruptly.

'Oh, by the way, I don't know if Molly has told you,' he knew she hadn't, 'but she is expecting our third child. We're hoping for a girl.'

With that, he smiled, gave a sort of click with his heels, nodded his farewell and was gone, swooping off down the road. Mrs Hooper stood on her front step, goggling at his retreating back then she realised that she was in full view of the entire neighbourhood and scuttled inside, closing the door and leaning against it, in a state of shock.

Sherlock ducked back down the alleyway, taking out his phone to ring the cab company and request a return trip to the station. He had just finished that quick call when his phone rang out and he looked at the caller ID. It was Molly's mum.

He clicked on the call but did not speak. There was a brief pause, then Mrs Hooper's voice cut in.

'Molly? Molly, are you there? What the hell is going on?' she demanded.

'Ah, Mrs Hooper, I'm sorry, did I not explain things fully?' he enquired.

She cut off the call, immediately. He looked at the phone in his hand and waited. A few seconds later, it rang again. He answered it once more.

'Mrs Hooper, if there is anything I can help you with, feel free to ask. Molly is at work, at the moment, so I took the precaution of transferring her calls to my number,' he advised her, omitting the small detail that it was only calls from her number that he had transferred. If she tried ringing Molly from another number, she would discover that but he was banking on the fact that she would take him at his word.

'No, no, I just wanted to congratulate her,' the woman whimpered.

'I'll be sure to pass that on,' he replied and closed the call.

He waited on the pavement until the cab came in to view then hailed it and climbed in. Everything had gone pretty much according to plan. He had disorientated her, put her on the back foot and, at the same time, issued a subtle warning that she should be wary of his displeasure. He hoped she would heed that warning and avoid a full frontal confrontation, for Molly's sake. For now, though, he needed to contact the first of the two prospective clients and check the train times to Nottingham.

ooOoo


End file.
